SEOUL, February 06 (AJP) - Sixty-four-year-old An Sung-woo is not your typical South Korean taxi driver.
His mornings resemble those of a corporate executive more than a cabbie. Immaculately dressed, he reviews a customized PDF itinerary on his tablet, fine-tunes it, and sends it to his clients with a courteous text.
Then he goes to work — delivering bread.
An’s passengers are not commuters or late-night revelers. They are bread connoisseurs. Devotees. Pilgrims. He ferries them to the finest bakeries and patisseries in Daejeon, widely regarded as Korea’s capital of bread.
By the time his guests step out of the car, their pastries are reserved, still warm, and waiting. No queues. No disappointment. No sold-out signs.
“The best part,” An says with a grin, “is watching their faces light up after the first bite. Some people actually moan. That’s when I know I’ve done my job.”
Seoul, he insists, may have the best of everything — except bread.
“For bread,” he says, “you come to Daejeon.”
From Rice Bowl to Bread Basket
Korea, once defined by rice, is quietly becoming a nation of flour.
Per-capita rice consumption has nearly halved since the mid-1990s. Flour intake, meanwhile, continues to rise. Bakeries now dot every neighborhood. Social media overflows with pastry reviews. New slang reflects the obsession: bbangsooni (bread lover) and bbang sunrye (bread pilgrimage).
Koreans no longer travel across town for a croissant. They travel across provinces.
And many head south — 160 kilometers from Seoul — to Daejeon.
As of August 2025, the city had 663 registered bakeries, up steadily from 538 in 2020. While other major cities have seen stagnation or decline, Daejeon’s bakery scene has expanded every single year, evolving into a full-fledged industry and cultural identity.
Bread here is not a trend. It is infrastructure.
How Daejeon Became Bread Country
The roots trace back to the postwar years.
After the Korean War, wheat flour flowed through Daejeon Station, a major railway hub. Flour-based foods took hold naturally. Bakeries followed. Then came a turning point.
In 1956, a small steamed bun shop opened near the station. It was called Sungsimdang. Its success proved that bread could sustain a livelihood in Daejeon.
Others followed: award-winning bakers, artisan pioneers, experimental chefs. Slowly, Daejeon transformed from a city with one famous bakery into a city of many.
The annual Daejeon Bread Festival, launched in 2021, reflects that maturity. Today, multiple bakeries compete for top honors. Some even outperform Sungsimdang.
Still, Sungsimdang remains a symbol. On its 60th anniversary, it received a papal honor. As it approaches 70, it continues to receive messages from the Vatican. Few bakeries anywhere in the world enjoy such status.
But An offers a warning.
“If you think Sungsimdang is all there is,” he says, “you’re missing most of the story.”
Why a Bread Taxi Exists
“At Sungsimdang, lines can stretch 800 meters,” An says. “By the time people reach the counter, they’re exhausted. No bread tastes good when you’re tired and frustrated.”
When he first launched his private tours, he followed the crowds.
“I remember taking clients there and finding everything sold out,” he recalls. “Their faces just fell. That’s when I knew reservations were essential.”
Today, every stop is pre-arranged.
The concept is simple: a private bread tour by taxi, tailored for small groups, designed to maximize pleasure and minimize waiting.
The city also runs public “Bread City” bus tours, but they involve 45-seat buses and long stops. An’s model is boutique: one to three hours, up to four guests, 30,000 won per hour.
Privacy. Efficiency. Warm bread. “That’s the difference,” he says.
Most of my customers are women,” An says. “Middle-aged friends. University students. Office workers on weekend trips.”
Some talk about bread nonstop. “Sometimes for three hours,” he laughs. “I just listen.”
He does not advertise. Business flows through direct messages.
“One early passenger was a YouTuber,” he says. “After one video, everything changed. Within three months, six videos had passed one million views.”
Now he is booked through June, often running two tours a day. Foreign inquiries are increasing.
Inside the Bread Taxi
On tour days, An arrives early at the meeting point — often Tanbang Station — holding two loaf-shaped dolls.
Inside, the taxi is a miniature bakery museum: bread cushions, pastry ornaments, custom tables.
“I tested more than eight folding tables from overseas,” he says. “Only one was good enough for eating bread comfortably.”
He greets guests with a gift bag: knife, wipes, gloves, cutlery, booklets, and city guides. Spreads — salted butter, cream cheese, balsamic oil — are always stocked.
“I want every detail perfect,” he says.
He refuses exclusive contracts with bakeries.
“I don’t want anyone influencing my route,” he says. “Ads only help me keep prices stable.”
A Ruthless Curator
An’s standards are strict. “First, the bread must be good. Second, affordable. Third, good service,” he says. “If ingredients change, I notice immediately.”
When standards slip, bakeries are dropped. “If quality wavers, the experience wavers.”
He is currently reviewing six new shops. From more than 30 vetted bakeries, he designs each route. Many guests choose what he calls “bread omakase” — complete trust in the driver.
“Most young women ask for that,” he says. “They just tell me what styles they like and leave the rest to me.”
Inspiration from Japan
The idea began abroad.
“Fifteen years ago, I saw udon taxis in Japan,” An recalls. “I thought, ‘Why not do this in Korea?’”
Plans were delayed after his business partner passed away. Years later, the idea resurfaced — this time with bread.
“That’s how the pilgrimage was born.”
At the end of each tour, An presents a final gift: a “Bbangtican Pilgrimage Certificate,” stamped with date, route number, and his self-designed logo.
It is half souvenir, half joke — and entirely cherished.
Only recently, he says, has he understood what this work means.
“I realized that my happiness is real only when it makes others happy — my family, my guests.”
He plans to expand slowly.
“Step by step,” he says. “After all, I’m just a simple man driving people to good bread.”
In Daejeon, that is more than enough.
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