The menu here is almost provocatively short: fried chicken, a sauce, a cold beer. That restraint is the point. The owner learned her craft chasing childhood memories of Korean soul food, and the chicken is treated with real patience, brined for more than twelve hours and dipped in a batter mixed from scratch, so it arrives light, tender and audibly crunchy. Order it on the bone or off, then choose between soy and garlic, a double-brushed sticky soy, or yangnyeom, the sweet-hot red glaze that defines the genre. Around that centrepiece sit the right supporting players: crisp-edged kimchi pancakes, mandoo, a yuzu-dressed salad and joomuk bap, seaweed-flecked rice balls rolled by hand. The drinks lean deliberately light, Korean lagers and local brews chosen to reset the palate between pieces, with patbingsu, Korea's mountain of shaved ice, waiting for anyone with room left. The Union Street room took over a former dessert and wine bar and turned it relaxed and contemporary, the sort of place built for a group, a stack of napkins and an unhurried evening. In a city where Korean fried chicken is still thin on the ground, the single-mindedness reads as confidence rather than limitation.