Mukbang is one of the unexpected successes of the individual broadcasting formats that have come to define internet food culture. The structure is straightforward: one person, a copious amount of food, and the slow disappearance of that food into the person’s mouth. Viewers in large numbers tune in to watch this unadorned display of one of the most basic human activities—eating. It is a Korean cultural product that has achieved international recognition, with the Oxford English Dictionary adding the word in 2022. Even Timothée Chalamet has mentioned it. But is mukbang simply a harmless trend fueled by big appetites, or does it reflect deeper dynamics of performance, consumption, and control?

Allegedly, it was on AfreecaTV that the content format now known as mukbang first emerged around 2008. As an acronym for “Anyone Can Freely Broadcast,” AfreecaTV was a platform that enabled diverse forms of individual broadcasting. With nothing more than a personal computer and a webcam, anyone could become a broadcaster, offering programs that ranged from sharing personal stories to “girl in the show window”-style displays that invited erotic gazes and solicited virtual gifts from viewers. These gifts, called star balloons—purchased from the platform for approximately ten cents (USD) each—functioned both as a form of viewer approval and as a primary income source for the streamers, who were known as BJs (Broadcast Jockeys) within the AfreecaTV ecosystem. One BJ even received a record one million star balloons from viewers. BJ-ing was more than a casual pastime for unemployed youth; it emerged as a grassroots media practice within a landscape still largely dominated by traditional terrestrial broadcasters.

One of the earliest BJs to carve out a distinct niche in this emerging format was Banzz, whose show focused on eating. Despite his deceptively slim appearance, Banzz consumed enormous portions of noodles, pork cutlets, pancakes, and other foods. With his soft-spoken demeanor and restrained manner, he differentiated himself from the more common male BJs of the time, who were often foul-mouthed, temperamental, and aligned with a laddish, hypermasculine persona. Arguably, Banzz played a crucial role in legitimizing mukbang as a genre. While the format drew criticism for encouraging unhealthy eating habits, excessive consumption, and food obsession—offering viewers a kind of vicarious indulgence—such concerns were largely sidelined as the popularity of BJs like Banzz soared. He later transitioned to YouTube, where he now has over two million subscribers. It was likely a strategic decision: the platform’s subscription and advertising model offered more stable income than the unpredictable flow of star balloons. Subsequent generations of mukbang hosts followed suit, choosing YouTube as their preferred platform for continuing a format that remains widely popular despite ongoing criticism.

 

Rebellion or Challenge

Mukbang was openly rebellious against the norms—both implicit and explicit—that regulate food and its consumption. From the idea that food is a source of health and should be treated accordingly, to expectations around table manners, mukbang deliberately transgressed these conventions. Food is a culturally and psychologically charged domain, even though, at its core, it is a means of energy and nutrition. Beyond its nutritional function, food is loaded with meaning: luxury foods are distinguished from everyday fare, particular rules dictate how certain dishes should be consumed, and culturally constructed boundaries determine which animals are edible and which are taboo. Food also facilitates social rituals—dinner parties, birthday celebrations—and it can enhance social status as well as gratify the palate.

Mukbang reversed many of these codes. The solitary act of eating performed by mukbang hosts ignored distinctions between healthy and unhealthy food; they disregarded etiquette, and paid no attention to the seasonal or ethical sourcing of ingredients. The more food they consumed—often to excessive degrees—the more viewers applauded. Ten packets of ramen in a single sitting was celebrated as a brilliant mukbang, not condemned as a senseless act of overindulgence with possible health consequences. In mukbang, one value seemed to prevail above all else: personal pleasure.

While mukbang foregrounded individual enjoyment and sensory satisfaction, traditional media remained anchored in respectability, guided by bourgeois principles of proper food culture. A six-part documentary series, Noodle Road (2008), exemplifies this approach, transforming the simple noodle into a grand historical and geographical narrative. Its ambitious scope ranged from ancient milling techniques to the regional differentiation of noodle traditions. It was a revelation that a bowl of soup could carry such a weight of cultural history. Whereas mukbang emphasized bodily sensation and private gratification, traditional media celebrated culinary heritage and cultural refinement, the kind of discourse suited for dinner conversation at a fashionable restaurant. This was, in effect, a cultural struggle: a contest over the meaning of food and its place in society. And the momentum was shifting, with the balance tipping toward more personalized, pleasure-driven standards of taste and satisfaction. The contrast between mukbang and traditional food documentaries such as Noodle Road reveals a deeper struggle over regimes of taste, class, and embodied pleasure.

Culinary Class War

Food has long served as a site of cultural distinction, with its meanings and hierarchies shifting according to class-based systems of legitimacy over taste. Few figures illustrate this shift as clearly as Paik Jong-won, a food entrepreneur who capitalized on changing attitudes toward culinary authority. Now a media personality and franchise owner, Paik first appeared on television as a cook offering quick, accessible recipes—dishes that would not seem out of place in a mukbang. Without the pretense of being a haute cuisine chef, he demonstrated how to prepare comfort food in ways approachable even to those without formal training or years of kitchen experience.

Early in his TV career, Paik was nicknamed “Sugar Paik” for his unapologetic and, at times, inventive use of sugar. For him, sugar served as a shortcut to achieving the depth and sweetness of taste typically associated with more “authentic” or labor-intensive cooking. His embrace of convenience and his disregard for traditional culinary norms became his brand. As his popularity grew, he parlayed his media persona into a series of restaurant franchises that offered affordable, easy-to-enjoy meals to a broad public. With a healthy dose of irreverence and a guiding principle that “taste is what matters most,” Paik’s approach resonated with a mukbang generation raised on pleasure over propriety.

Eating at one of Paik’s restaurants became more than just a matter of convenience; it became a subtle declaration of taste autonomy. For many young people, it signaled a break from parental or generational food values—an assertion that no one, no matter how credentialed in culinary “authenticity,” could dictate what food should mean to them.

So, when Paik Jong-won appeared as a judge on Culinary Class War, it seemed that the power games around food—see-sawing between pleasure and propriety, new experiences and heritage—had finally tilted in favor of the latest trends reshaping how we eat. The Netflix entertainment series divided its contestants into two groups: the white spoon, representing chefs from established, reputable restaurants; and the black spoon, composed of chefs struggling to make a mark with their own unique recipes. The second half of the show was a direct face-off between the two sides. In the show, the cultural battle over what to eat and who gets to cook was no longer a subtext—it was the very premise. And the person who decided the winner was none other than the man who had once challenged the existing culinary norms himself.

Mukbang was not just about watching someone eat. It was a performance that questioned the meaning of food in the age of personal broadcasting. In a world where eating was often tied to health, tradition, and good manners, mukbang threw those expectations out the window. Beginning as a small act of personal bravado—”I can eat all of this”—mukbang opened a floodgate for deeper shifts in our attitudes toward food.