It was a Tuesday evening in late July, the kind where the humidity sits on you like a wet towel, and I was on a bench near the bike rental kiosk on the Yeouido side of Hangang Park, watching my daughter chase a soap-bubble seller’s bubbles into the grass. I had no plan for dinner, no cooler bag, nothing. Just a phone at 34 percent battery and a hunger that was starting to feel urgent. On a whim, I opened Baemin, typed “fried chicken,” and instead of typing an address I did something that still feels a little unreal to me: I dropped a pin on a map, right where I was sitting, and hit order.
Twenty-nine minutes later my phone rang. Not a text, not an app notification — an actual phone call from a number I didn’t recognize. “Yeouido Hangang Park, near the bike rental, blue bench, right?” the rider asked, already half out of breath from walking his scooter across the grass because the path didn’t quite reach where I was. I said yes, stood up and waved, and a few seconds later I was holding a paper bag of yangnyeom fried chicken from a place called Kyochon, a combo that had cost around 23,000 won plus a small delivery fee, still warm, napkins tucked neatly on top. My daughter didn’t even look up from the bubbles. To her this was completely unremarkable. To me it was the moment Korea’s delivery system stopped being a convenience and started being something closer to infrastructure.

An Address Is Not Actually Required
What surprised me wasn’t the speed. Seoul delivery is fast almost everywhere. What surprised me was that there was no address at all in the transaction — just a GPS pin and a phone number. Both Baemin and Coupang Eats let you drop a live location instead of typing a building number, and at the bigger Hangang parks like Yeouido and Ttukseom, the apps go a step further with numbered picnic zones you can select directly, so the rider already knows roughly where to look before they’ve even called. I’d assumed, wrongly, that delivery in any country needed a fixed point on a registered map. Here it needs a location and a working phone number, and that’s it.
This turned out to explain something I’d noticed for months without understanding it: delivery riders showing up at subway exits, at the entrance of hiking trails, outside gyms with no street-facing door. None of those places have a mailing address either. They all have a pin.

The Phone Call Is the Whole System
The call itself is doing more work than it seems. In a country where checkout apps otherwise avoid human contact as a design principle — no cashiers, self-order kiosks everywhere, QR codes instead of menus — the one moment that still requires an actual voice is the last hundred meters. I’ve had riders describe their own jacket color to me over the phone so I could spot them faster. I’ve had one, at Banpo Hangang Park on a busier night, ask me to just start walking toward the fountain because he could see a cluster of blue benches and couldn’t tell which one was mine from a distance. It’s oddly personal for a system built almost entirely around not talking to strangers.
Payment, by contrast, has zero personal moment at all. It’s all handled inside the app beforehand, card on file, no cash changing hands, no tip expected or offered — the same no-tipping etiquette that applies at restaurants here carries straight over to delivery riders. I remember trying to hand my first rider a couple thousand extra won as a thank-you and watching him wave it off almost reflexively, like I’d offered him something slightly embarrassing.
How This Reads Against Home
Back where I grew up, ordering food to a park would have meant giving a cross street and hoping for the best, or more likely just not doing it — delivery apps there are built around registered addresses with unit numbers, and a driver circling a public park looking for “the guy near the big tree” isn’t really a workflow anyone designed for. Here it’s routine enough that nobody around me on that bench even glanced up when a scooter rider crossed the grass carrying bags. Riverside parks in Seoul get thousands of delivery orders on a warm weekend night; it’s simply assumed you might be sitting somewhere without a door number, and the whole system was quietly built to handle that instead of treating it as an edge case.
I’ve ordered to that same stretch of Yeouido Hangang Park probably a dozen times since, and it hasn’t gotten less strange to me, just more useful. There’s something almost funny about sitting on public grass, eating chicken that arrived faster than it would have at my own front door, phone battery ticking down, kid still chasing bubbles like none of it is a big deal at all.
FAQ
Can you really get delivery to a Han River park with no street address?
Yes. At Yeouido Hangang Park and Ttukseom Hangang Park you can select a numbered picnic zone inside Baemin or Coupang Eats, or simply drop a live GPS pin at your bench. The rider calls your phone on arrival — in my experience that call comes anywhere from 20 to 40 minutes after ordering, depending on how busy the chicken place is that night.
What if I’m a tourist without a Korean phone number or bank card?
This has gotten noticeably easier. Baemin has accepted overseas-issued credit cards since 2022, added Alipay and WeChat Pay support in 2025, and now takes foreign cards registered through Apple Pay. You’ll still need a working phone number that can receive a call, since that’s how the rider finds you at a spot with no address.
Do I need to tip the delivery rider?
No. The price you see at checkout, including the delivery fee — usually around 2,000 to 4,000 won depending on distance — is the full cost. Offering cash on top is unnecessary, and riders will often actively decline it, the same way servers do at restaurants.





























