Americana Revisited: Tracing Korea’s Burger Memories from Ichon to Dogok

In Dogok-dong, tucked behind a modest sign that simply reads “HAMBURGERS,” sits OneStar, a burger shop where the lighting, menu, and vinyl booths feel lifted from an earlier time. But this isn’t an accident. Everything here is intentional. Carefully curated. Thoughtfully branded. And, crucially, the food lives up to the mood. That, more than anything, is what brought all the memories rushing back.

Royal Mansion and the First Burger

My first memory of a hamburger begins in Dongbu Ichon-dong, at a now-vanished shop called Americana. It was located in the Royal Mansion arcade, which also housed the Royal Swimming Pool, once one of the largest indoor pools in Seoul. The burger and the pool sat at either end of the arcade like bookends. I took my first swimming lesson there, then had my first burger soon after. It came in foil, slightly sweet, unfamiliar yet deeply exciting. Americana wasn’t just a restaurant. In the Korea of the 1980s, it was an encounter with another world.

In January 1980, a modest burger joint bearing that name opened its doors in Chungmuro. Through a technical partnership with JB’s Big Boy in the U.S., Americana brought with it a taste of something foreign: chili con carne, sesame buns in shiny foil, and a stainless-steel interior that looked like it had landed straight out of an American movie.

For a generation of Seoulites, Americana was more than just a restaurant. It was a sign of something new. Its bold red signage and booth seating style were portals to a world imagined through Hollywood films.

At its peak in the late 1980s, Americana had more than 70 locations across the country and was selected as one of the official food vendors for the 1988 Seoul Olympics — a marker of just how central burgers had become to Korea’s vision of global modernity.

But the boom didn’t last. By the late 1990s, as global franchises entered the market and the Asian Financial Crisis hit, Americana began disappearing, quietly, branch by branch. Today, only one original shop remains in Anseong, serving as a faint echo of a time when it was once the future.

The Golden Arches, Then and Later

I was in elementary school when I first tasted McDonald’s. It was the late 80s or early 90s, before smartphones, before any of us really understood what global meant. That first bite, of something precise, pickled, balanced in its salt and texture, stayed with me. My mom brought it home, and it felt like she had brought back a piece of abroad.

By the late 1990s, McDonald’s Apgujeong branch had become the place to meet. We didn’t go inside. We gathered out front, scanning the crowd for friends. Everyone knew someone who’d be there. In a city growing fast, it was an anchor.

And yet, some menu items never anchored here. The Filet-O-Fish was one of them. It came and went, and eventually disappeared altogether. These days, I make a point of ordering it when I travel overseas. It’s a small act of memory.

Kraze and the End of a Feeling

There was a Kraze Burger in Ichon-dong too. It introduced me to the idea of the gourmet burger. Burgers came on plates. Chili cheese fries sat under melted cheddar. The Matiz burger was small but mighty. Kraze wasn’t just a burger; it was a vibe.

But vibes are fragile. As it scaled up, Kraze failed to evolve its business model. When Shake Shack opened in 2016, it brought sleek branding, smart sourcing, and that Instagrammable glow. Kraze had size, but lost its spark. It couldn’t keep up. Sometimes I still miss it. Especially the chili cheese fries and the Matiz.

Every Chain, a Memory

When traveling outside Seoul, Lotteria was always there. I didn’t love the bulgogi burger, but years later, I was surprised by the Napoli Matpia collaboration. It was unexpectedly good.

Wendy’s had a branch in Itaewon, and I would stare at the mascot’s face, wondering if she’d blink. Hardee’s, tucked under Kyobo Bookstore in Gwanghwamun, was something I looked forward to every time. The fact that it was rare made it more delicious.

There was a Burger King near the university where my dad worked. They gave me a paper crown, and I wore it seriously. In elementary school, I thought the Whopper was the best burger in the world. Big bites, salty fries, and Coke — a perfect trio.

From Tokyo to California to Seoul

MOS Burger wasn’t just rice buns. In fact, what struck me most were items like the teriyaki burger. The flavors felt new. Portions were modest, which made them easier to enjoy. For a while, it was incredibly popular. Then just… less so.

Later came CryCheeseBurger. It was started by someone who had worked at In-N-Out in California, missing the taste so much they decided to replicate it in Seoul. And it worked. Before today, it was one of the three burgers I ate most often, alongside the Big Mac and Shake Shack.

When Shake Shack opened in Gangnam, the line wrapped around the block. People waited for hours. Five Guys and even the Gordon Ramsay Burger brought similar energy. These openings felt like concerts. They weren’t just about food. They were about the feeling of being first.

OneStar: A Burger Worth the Story

So I came to OneStar, and I ordered the OneStar Deluxe. It arrived just like a burger in a commercial. Structurally flawless, sesame-topped bun glistening, the patty cooked and seasoned perfectly. Every component held its place — lettuce, tomato, pickles, onion, cheese, bacon, and beef. And when I bit into it, I tasted everything at once.

It was a burger in symphony. Nothing got lost. No part went soggy. The texture held from start to finish, and the flavor remained even and confident the whole way through.

Then there was the patty melt. Buttery and rich, with a saltiness that reminded me of a well-made French onion soup. The melted cheese pulled gently, the grilled rye crisp but yielding. It was deeply comforting.

OneStar doesn’t rely on my nostalgia. It earns it. That’s what Americana did back then. That’s what OneStar is doing now.

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