The trend that’s making its rounds on padded feet down sartorial lane is Quiet Luxury. Contrary to its name, quiet luxury is causing quite a commotion. There is a certain appeal to exuding “I’m spending money under the radar” vibes, especially during an economic turndown; an insouciance that infects our senses, seeps into our social veins, transmutes our perception of what Cool is.
Then we have at the other end of the spectrum: bingsu (빙수).
For those who’ve spent a summer in Seoul, it’s highly likely that “bingsu” has emerged at least once during conversation with a fellow Seoulite. The shaved ice dessert is a retreat for the heat-exhausted mind; a refresher against a merciless humidity that snuffs appetite. From this much it’s not too hard to deduce that bingsu is a summer favorite. Bingsu of all shapes, sizes, flavors, and exquisiteness are offered by F&B brands across the board. Walk into any mainstream cafe—Paris Baguette (don’t ask me why we have a “Paris Baguette” in Seoul), Holly’s, Artisee—that seemingly exists on almost every corner, and you’ll see it. That big poster beckoning you to dive into a bowl of shaved ice.
Won’t you take the plunge?
But I digress. To loop back to the idea of quiet luxury, not all bingsu are created equal. Some are tastier, fancier and pricier than others. Before Covid-19 descended upon us, launching a plethora of trends promoting self-pampering under the guise of therapeutic relief, bingsu was ordinary. Bingsu was a summer treat that, for the most part, was inherently democratic. Heck, if you don’t have money to buy one, just make it at home with milk and ice. Simple and doable.
Then someone—presumably an anthropological genius who made the mistake of enrolling in culinary school—came up with the idea of giving bingsu a twist. A capital-F-Fancy twist. Bingsu was elevated to a whole new level where ice takes on a featheriness that leaves one aching; where red bean is swept away for premium mangoes harvested in Jeju; where rarity is the new price tag. A world where bingsu is no longer just a dessert.
A world where bingsu is no longer just a dessert
This conjured, theoretical culinary star somehow knew that people are disarmed by familiarity. That people find comfort in old things. Bingsu has been around forever—almost like that bottle of ketchup you see at every burger shop. So when you add a layer of opulence onto a childhood favorite, it becomes irresistibly enticing. What does it taste like now? Has it gotten even better? Can it get better? Maybe that last part about irresistibility was a bit hyperbolic (a quick wallet health check might curb the excitement), but it’s quite hard to deny the allure that a layer of exquisiteness lends to an otherwise ordinary dessert.
When I say “exquisiteness” I’m not referring to the practice of sprinkling a few flakes of gold onto a bagel and charging $45 for it. Or chicken dipped in caviar (albeit this does make for an interesting combination). The exquisiteness I want to paint inside your mind is a quiet revolution. A silent upheaval that distorts your perception of the dessert you always knew; redesigning it from the core inside out; bestowing upon it a new identity. Behold! Bingsu, the new cultural immersion! A delicacy that extends far beyond the boundaries of palatable experiences.
The exquisiteness I want to paint inside your mind is a quiet revolution. A silent upheaval that distorts your perception of the dessert you always knew.
The Fancy bingsu I’m going to be talking about from this point onwards is the antithesis of quiet luxury. Vogue remarks that quiet luxury is marked by a discreetness that obscures the source of its “designer pedigree”. Our bingsu, newly reborn à la Princess Diaries, dismisses this premise with a flamboyance that points to its design philosophy: opulence is transportive. When people take a bite out of a $70 honeycomb bingsu, a spring signature menu at Shilla Hotel “wrapped” inside a translucent box, they’re essentially embarking on a gastronomical journey that transports them into a state of revery. This catapulting into heightened sensory terrain mimics and compensates for the lack of travel-induced adrenaline during lock down. Since physical travel was heavily restricted, many Seoulites sought new means of transporting themselves outside normality.
I’m not exaggerating when I say that Seoulites were lining up and waiting for hours in front of Shilla’s lobby to dig into a $80 bowl of mango bingsu last summer.
Seoulite’s mind boggling infatuation with bingsu insinuates a clear truth: bingsu is a transportive pastime. In other words, bingsu no longer competes within the same arena as other desserts. Yes, bingsu is still an icy delicacy but it’s also something more. Bingsu is the newest means of pampering oneself. Now, Seoulites looking to drop some cash on self-pampering have to deliberate whether they want to lie down for an oil massage, do some long overdue springtime shopping, plop themselves in front of an IMAX screen, or sate their taste buds with some lavish bingsu.
Bingsu is still an icy delicacy but it’s also something more. Bingsu is the newest means of pampering oneself.
Bingsu has essentially evolved from a dessert into a luxurious immersion over the course of a year. This transformation was made possible because Shilla Hotel engineered it with finesse. A quick google—or chat with ChatGPT—will make it clear that Shilla is one of the best hotel brands in Seoul. So a luxurious $80 bingsu endorsed by Shilla automatically signals to customers that they are being offered something more than just dessert; they are being offered an invitation to enter a new zone of sensory exquisiteness.
Such is the power brands wield. They instill beliefs. Beliefs that shape reality. From dessert to immersion. Bingsu is the quiet revolution.