Seoul is one of the few cities where eating has its own soundtrack. Not the chef’s Spotify playlist—and hopefully not tourists bawling Black Pink over barbecue smoke—but actual percussion: heavy metal, you could call it.

Korean utensils, known collectively as sujeo, differ from those of neighbouring China and Japan through their use of metal. Brass and silver were historically associated with durability, hygiene and social status, particularly during the Joseon dynasty. The long-standing belief that silver could detect poison through tarnishing ensured its popularity within royal households, though most ordinary families used brass before eventually transitioning to stainless steel in the twentieth century.

If you are in need, Hanssem Flagship Store offers something closer in spirit to Manufactum than a lifestyle boutique. Alongside furniture and domestic goods, one can find well-made Korean tableware. For second-hand examples, try the markets around Dongmyo and Dapsimni.

The international understanding of Korean food still tends to oscillate between two poles: the theatrics of Korean barbecue, and fried chicken. Korean Buddhist cuisine, by contrast, asks not how much flavour can be added, nor how much batter or beer for that matter, but how clearly a single ingredient can express itself.

Few people articulate this more elegantly than Jeong Kwan, the Buddhist nun whose cooking at Baekyangsa Temple became internationally recognised through an episode of Chef’s Table. Her approach to food is inseparable from Korean Buddhist philosophy: ingredients are fermented because they preserve seasons naturally and deepen flavour; vegetables are treated according to their texture, temperature and water content; while excessive garlic, onion and chilli are generally avoided, as they can overstimulate. A simple temple preparation that can be recreated almost anywhere is braised lotus root. It demonstrates the elegance of Korean Buddhist cooking without requiring specialist equipment or impossible ingredients. Method:

Peel and slice lotus root thinly before soaking briefly in water to remove excess starch. Simmer gently in a mixture of soy sauce, water and a small amount of rice syrup until the slices become translucent while still retaining slight resistance at the centre. Allow the liquid to reduce slowly and finish with toasted sesame seeds.

Follow your nose via Seoul’s Aesop stores, distilled as an Eau de Parfum.

Top note: Aesop Sounds Hannam, a modern dwelling in a fresh neighbourhood.

Heart note: Aesop Seongsu, where Aesop’s design philosophy and Korean culture harmonise.

Base note: Aesop Garosu-gil, the neighbourhood where we first brought our amber bottles to Korea.

Dapsimni Antique Market spreads across numerous streets and warehouses in eastern Seoul. The district specialises in objects that have survived Korea’s transformation into a contemporary technological economy. Here, one can find Joseon-era cabinets beside analogue radios, dinted brass bowls beside lacquer furniture, inkstones next to obsolete telephones, and enamel signage from the 1970s. Three places worth seeking out include Hakgojae Antique, which specialises in scholar furniture; Yesarang for ceramics; and Manbokdang for almost anything else.

Historically, Korean culture often removed layers until what remained felt inevitable. One sees it in traditional hanoks, pre-K-pop gayageum music, and in the disciplined restraint of Dansaekhwa painting, which is less ‘minimalist’—in the fashionable Western sense—than ‘essentialist’. Philip Glass, who famously despised the word ‘minimalism’ when used to describe his music, understood something similar: nature—and human nature—itself does not decorate unnecessarily. Artist, writer and philosopher Lee Ufan lives this, describing his work as ‘the art of encounter’. If you are in town, here are three locations to be encountered:

At Ho-Am Museum of Art, one can experience Silentium, the artist’s permanent installation integrated into the landscape surrounding the museum. The temptation may be to photograph it immediately, though the work improves considerably when looked at for longer than contemporary attention spans generally allow. Closer to the city, at Leeum Museum of Art, Ufan’s paintings possess the quiet confidence of leaving space unused. And then there is ‘Space Lee Ufan’ at Busan Museum of Art, which functions less as an exhibition than as a spiritual overhaul.