At three La Crescenta markets, the heart of the foothills feels like Koreatown

When driving on Foothill Boulevard into La Crescenta, as the road bursts out of neighboring La Cañada Flintridge and shuffles its way in between the Verdugo Mountains and the Angeles National Forest, one begins to realize why this community is nicknamed “The Balcony of Southern California.”

The mountains seemingly hoist the road up into the air and hold it, like how a parent holds a toddler up to a too-high fence to get a better view. In this case, that view is westward, into the Valley, or eastward, farther into California, and then into the rest of the country, as the road evolves into Route 66.

For many, this section of Foothill is a route from one place to another. But today, for me, it’s a destination. The neighborhood is far from Los Angeles’ Koreatown, and yet, I’m here to pick up marinated bulgogi; dangmyeon, the bouncy sweet potato noodles; and jangajji, crunchy veg pickled in soy brine for a Korean dinner I’m cooking later in the night.

For many L.A.-area residents, La Crescenta is the closest Koreatown. On a two-mile stretch of Foothill Boulevard, three bustling grocery stores offer produce, prepared foods such as fresh banchan and Korean brands.

That’s because, as an Eagle Rock resident, La Crescenta is my closest Koreatown. And while they are by no means comparable in size to their K-town cousins, three bustling Korean grocery stores live on a stretch of Foothill Boulevard less than two miles long, each more charming than the last.

The exterior sign at Lotte Market, the first store of the row, is crowned by the rugged tips of the Angeles Forest that peek out from behind it. Inside, a giant wall decal of four perfect apples catches my eye as we walk in; it frames the mirrored produce shelves, accentuating the curly frills of chrysanthemum leaves, the bundles of taut smooth scallions and stalky minari.

In the seafood section, a peek in the cooler reveals frozen abalone, shrimp, small octopus with bulbous heads, and bags upon bags of frozen dumplings. The yellow eyes of four long skinny beltfish on ice furtively follow us as we wander the room.

Freshly prepped ingredients in the butcher section at Han Kook Market.

“Maybe this is a personal opinion,” private chef Nina Yoon tells me as she weaves her way toward the back of the store, “but they have the best prepared foods, the best banchan.” Yoon, who spent ages 14 to 28 living just down the street and around the corner from Lotte, beckons me to the cold case. Like scoops of an ocean unmarred by humans, quarts of seaweed soup sit next to other flavors like spicy beef and pine nut and soybean, a shade of creamy beige so calming, one glance is enough to effectively absolve the color of its dull reputation.

The usual suspects are all there: tiny fried anchovies, cubes of radish kimchi and flat Saran-wrapped bibimbap kits. Lotte caters, and Yoon reminisces fondly about trays of modeum jeon, assorted fritters and pancakes her family would order each New Year’s.

Han Kook Market’s prepared vegetable banchan, kimchi and soups.

“I wish there were restaurants that sold them, but you see them everywhere in Korean grocery stores,” she remarks as beads of neon dance behind her on a big rectangular screen. “Catering!” the sign reads, each letter bouncing up and down Cocomelon-style. “Kobe Beef!”

As we head down Foothill, flickers of a broader K-town are revealed in signs for doctors’ offices, beauty salons and afterschool programs. But surprisingly, the Korean restaurants are few and far between.

“A lot of the places I used to go to when I was young aren’t here anymore,” Yoon says as we pass a shuttered favorite. “But those that have stayed haven’t changed one bit.” Take Hello Pizza, one of the few restaurants in the city to offer a pizza crust stuffed with sweet potato puree, a style popularized in Korea, in flavors like bulgogi and an intriguing “Shrimp Gold” with mushrooms, corn and Cajun shrimp.

Pull into the parking lot at Han Kook Market, where you’ll find tteok bokki in the freezer section, stacks of Buldak and fresh vegetables. (Amanda Villarosa / For The Times)

A dedication to organization is evident even before we enter the doors of Seoul Market. Hundreds of sauces meticulously arranged in neat rows, like soldiers standing at attention, greet us. Yoon points to the shelf. “Erewhon,” she says with a smirk.

This pattern repeats throughout the store, which is bigger, although only by a little, than Lotte Market.

In the back, like a teacher in the front of their class, a list of kimchi offerings oversees the banchan. Perilla, green onion, vegan cabbage and “ponytail” kimchi made with long-leafed radishes appear in the catalog. Near the cash registers are packs of desserts from Jihwaja Bakery, like the geodic kkul tteok, stuffed with honey and sesame.

Signs for deals are posted to a bulletin board outside of Han Kook Market. An employee restocks a freezer. (Amanda Villarosa / For The Times)

The meat department calls to us, and as Yoon and I pace the counter, we’re hypnotized by the kaleidoscopic marbling on the pre-cut jowl, short rib and brisket.

“I go to K-town to visit my mom twice a week, but I don’t really grocery shop there, it’s too crowded,” says Tanya Yu, an employee at Seoul Market who’s been living in the area for over 30 years. “I can find most of what I need here.” And it’s not just Yu who thinks that. “Sometimes we’re surprised because Armenian people, white people, come in here and buy all the ingredients they need to make their own kimchi!” she tells us.

Step into Seoul Market and find thousands of products meticulously arranged in neat rows. Near the cash registers are packs of desserts from Jihwaja Bakery.

The sun hits La Crescenta differently. Need proof? Just look at the signs. Like a kid who’s outgrown his clothes, the white lettering that spells “Palace Cleaners” in a strip mall off Foothill Boulevard has ballooned into a cramped, pudgy caricature of its once slender self. Off Ramsdell Avenue sits a large white sign with mirage-faint lettering, the only indicator that it could have been a music store is the presence of one misty stoic treble clef.

“It’s hot!” says Roy Shin when asked about the differences between living in the foothills versus Torrance. Shin, the owner of La Crescenta Han Kook Market — located in the Flamingo Plaza strip mall off Foothill, where the vinyl flamingos that adorn its sign have lost their heads entirely — moved from the South Bay in 2025 after buying the 30-plus-year-old market.

Given its size, HK Market doesn’t offer the same variety of product as the other two stores, but that’s not for lack of trying; every nook and cranny of the small space has a utility. Boxes of Buldak are stacked on the tops of refrigerators until they kiss the ceiling. Korean box dyes, candies and hangover cures enshrine the cash register.

And you never know what you may find in the long reach in the freezer. On my trip with Yoon, a handful of wrapped mackerels were lingering somewhere near the edamame. On another, a smattering of breaded cutlets were quickly snapped up by customers passing through.

Packages of prepared kimbap, tubs of gochujang and Korean snacks beckon from the shelves of Han Kook Market. (Amanda Villarosa / For The Times)

Maybe it’s because I always seem to end up here when the banchan is being made (a bubbling pot of beef stew on the stove and a line of mackerels sizzling on the griddle) but my heart is with HK. Here, the black beans swim a little deeper in their brine and near the tinned lychees I spot a few cans of Whole Foods 365 evaporated milk.

It doesn’t take much effort to imagine a young Yoon sent around the corner by her mother to pick up a missing ingredient as she tells me she used to do back when she lived up the street. It’s the kind of local market rarely found these days, one that encourages people to stay in their neighborhood.

“We try to carry all the same things as a big market.” Shin says “We try to keep the prices down so people don’t have to drive into L.A.”

When asked why Shin decided to make the switch from fashion to grocery, he says, “I just thought it was a great market.”

When driving on Foothill Boulevard into La Crescenta, as the road bursts out of neighboring La Cañada Flintridge and shuffles its way in between the Verdugo Mountains and the Angeles National Forest, one begins to realize why this community is nicknamed “The Balcony of Southern California.”

The mountains seemingly hoist the road up into the air and hold it, like how a parent holds a toddler up to a too-high fence to get a better view. In this case, that view is westward, into the Valley, or eastward, farther into California, and then into the rest of the country, as the road evolves into Route 66.

For many, this section of Foothill is a route from one place to another. But today, for me, it’s a destination. The neighborhood is far from Los Angeles’ Koreatown, and yet, I’m here to pick up marinated bulgogi; dangmyeon, the bouncy sweet potato noodles; and jangajji, crunchy veg pickled in soy brine for a Korean dinner I’m cooking later in the night.

For many L.A.-area residents, La Crescenta is the closest Koreatown. On a two-mile stretch of Foothill Boulevard, three bustling grocery stores offer produce, prepared foods such as fresh banchan and Korean brands.

That’s because, as an Eagle Rock resident, La Crescenta is my closest Koreatown. And while they are by no means comparable in size to their K-town cousins, three bustling Korean grocery stores live on a stretch of Foothill Boulevard less than two miles long, each more charming than the last.

The exterior sign at Lotte Market, the first store of the row, is crowned by the rugged tips of the Angeles Forest that peek out from behind it. Inside, a giant wall decal of four perfect apples catches my eye as we walk in; it frames the mirrored produce shelves, accentuating the curly frills of chrysanthemum leaves, the bundles of taut smooth scallions and stalky minari.

In the seafood section, a peek in the cooler reveals frozen abalone, shrimp, small octopus with bulbous heads, and bags upon bags of frozen dumplings. The yellow eyes of four long skinny beltfish on ice furtively follow us as we wander the room.

Freshly prepped ingredients in the butcher section at Han Kook Market.

“Maybe this is a personal opinion,” private chef Nina Yoon tells me as she weaves her way toward the back of the store, “but they have the best prepared foods, the best banchan.” Yoon, who spent ages 14 to 28 living just down the street and around the corner from Lotte, beckons me to the cold case. Like scoops of an ocean unmarred by humans, quarts of seaweed soup sit next to other flavors like spicy beef and pine nut and soybean, a shade of creamy beige so calming, one glance is enough to effectively absolve the color of its dull reputation.

The usual suspects are all there: tiny fried anchovies, cubes of radish kimchi and flat Saran-wrapped bibimbap kits. Lotte caters, and Yoon reminisces fondly about trays of modeum jeon, assorted fritters and pancakes her family would order each New Year’s.

Han Kook Market’s prepared vegetable banchan, kimchi and soups.

“I wish there were restaurants that sold them, but you see them everywhere in Korean grocery stores,” she remarks as beads of neon dance behind her on a big rectangular screen. “Catering!” the sign reads, each letter bouncing up and down Cocomelon-style. “Kobe Beef!”

As we head down Foothill, flickers of a broader K-town are revealed in signs for doctors’ offices, beauty salons and afterschool programs. But surprisingly, the Korean restaurants are few and far between.

“A lot of the places I used to go to when I was young aren’t here anymore,” Yoon says as we pass a shuttered favorite. “But those that have stayed haven’t changed one bit.” Take Hello Pizza, one of the few restaurants in the city to offer a pizza crust stuffed with sweet potato puree, a style popularized in Korea, in flavors like bulgogi and an intriguing “Shrimp Gold” with mushrooms, corn and Cajun shrimp.

Pull into the parking lot at Han Kook Market, where you’ll find tteok bokki in the freezer section, stacks of Buldak and fresh vegetables. (Amanda Villarosa / For The Times)

A dedication to organization is evident even before we enter the doors of Seoul Market. Hundreds of sauces meticulously arranged in neat rows, like soldiers standing at attention, greet us. Yoon points to the shelf. “Erewhon,” she says with a smirk.

This pattern repeats throughout the store, which is bigger, although only by a little, than Lotte Market.

In the back, like a teacher in the front of their class, a list of kimchi offerings oversees the banchan. Perilla, green onion, vegan cabbage and “ponytail” kimchi made with long-leafed radishes appear in the catalog. Near the cash registers are packs of desserts from Jihwaja Bakery, like the geodic kkul tteok, stuffed with honey and sesame.

Signs for deals are posted to a bulletin board outside of Han Kook Market. An employee restocks a freezer. (Amanda Villarosa / For The Times)

The meat department calls to us, and as Yoon and I pace the counter, we’re hypnotized by the kaleidoscopic marbling on the pre-cut jowl, short rib and brisket.

“I go to K-town to visit my mom twice a week, but I don’t really grocery shop there, it’s too crowded,” says Tanya Yu, an employee at Seoul Market who’s been living in the area for over 30 years. “I can find most of what I need here.” And it’s not just Yu who thinks that. “Sometimes we’re surprised because Armenian people, white people, come in here and buy all the ingredients they need to make their own kimchi!” she tells us.

Step into Seoul Market and find thousands of products meticulously arranged in neat rows. Near the cash registers are packs of desserts from Jihwaja Bakery.

The sun hits La Crescenta differently. Need proof? Just look at the signs. Like a kid who’s outgrown his clothes, the white lettering that spells “Palace Cleaners” in a strip mall off Foothill Boulevard has ballooned into a cramped, pudgy caricature of its once slender self. Off Ramsdell Avenue sits a large white sign with mirage-faint lettering, the only indicator that it could have been a music store is the presence of one misty stoic treble clef.

“It’s hot!” says Roy Shin when asked about the differences between living in the foothills versus Torrance. Shin, the owner of La Crescenta Han Kook Market — located in the Flamingo Plaza strip mall off Foothill, where the vinyl flamingos that adorn its sign have lost their heads entirely — moved from the South Bay in 2025 after buying the 30-plus-year-old market.

Given its size, HK Market doesn’t offer the same variety of product as the other two stores, but that’s not for lack of trying; every nook and cranny of the small space has a utility. Boxes of Buldak are stacked on the tops of refrigerators until they kiss the ceiling. Korean box dyes, candies and hangover cures enshrine the cash register.

And you never know what you may find in the long reach in the freezer. On my trip with Yoon, a handful of wrapped mackerels were lingering somewhere near the edamame. On another, a smattering of breaded cutlets were quickly snapped up by customers passing through.

Packages of prepared kimbap, tubs of gochujang and Korean snacks beckon from the shelves of Han Kook Market. (Amanda Villarosa / For The Times)

Maybe it’s because I always seem to end up here when the banchan is being made (a bubbling pot of beef stew on the stove and a line of mackerels sizzling on the griddle) but my heart is with HK. Here, the black beans swim a little deeper in their brine and near the tinned lychees I spot a few cans of Whole Foods 365 evaporated milk.

It doesn’t take much effort to imagine a young Yoon sent around the corner by her mother to pick up a missing ingredient as she tells me she used to do back when she lived up the street. It’s the kind of local market rarely found these days, one that encourages people to stay in their neighborhood.

“We try to carry all the same things as a big market.” Shin says “We try to keep the prices down so people don’t have to drive into L.A.”

When asked why Shin decided to make the switch from fashion to grocery, he says, “I just thought it was a great market.”

When driving on Foothill Boulevard into La Crescenta, as the road bursts out of neighboring La Cañada Flintridge and shuffles its way in between the Verdugo Mountains and the Angeles National Forest, one begins to realize why this community is nicknamed “The Balcony of Southern California.”

The mountains seemingly hoist the road up into the air and hold it, like how a parent holds a toddler up to a too-high fence to get a better view. In this case, that view is westward, into the Valley, or eastward, farther into California, and then into the rest of the country, as the road evolves into Route 66.

For many, this section of Foothill is a route from one place to another. But today, for me, it’s a destination. The neighborhood is far from Los Angeles’ Koreatown, and yet, I’m here to pick up marinated bulgogi; dangmyeon, the bouncy sweet potato noodles; and jangajji, crunchy veg pickled in soy brine for a Korean dinner I’m cooking later in the night.

For many L.A.-area residents, La Crescenta is the closest Koreatown. On a two-mile stretch of Foothill Boulevard, three bustling grocery stores offer produce, prepared foods such as fresh banchan and Korean brands.

That’s because, as an Eagle Rock resident, La Crescenta is my closest Koreatown. And while they are by no means comparable in size to their K-town cousins, three bustling Korean grocery stores live on a stretch of Foothill Boulevard less than two miles long, each more charming than the last.

The exterior sign at Lotte Market, the first store of the row, is crowned by the rugged tips of the Angeles Forest that peek out from behind it. Inside, a giant wall decal of four perfect apples catches my eye as we walk in; it frames the mirrored produce shelves, accentuating the curly frills of chrysanthemum leaves, the bundles of taut smooth scallions and stalky minari.

In the seafood section, a peek in the cooler reveals frozen abalone, shrimp, small octopus with bulbous heads, and bags upon bags of frozen dumplings. The yellow eyes of four long skinny beltfish on ice furtively follow us as we wander the room.

Freshly prepped ingredients in the butcher section at Han Kook Market.

“Maybe this is a personal opinion,” private chef Nina Yoon tells me as she weaves her way toward the back of the store, “but they have the best prepared foods, the best banchan.” Yoon, who spent ages 14 to 28 living just down the street and around the corner from Lotte, beckons me to the cold case. Like scoops of an ocean unmarred by humans, quarts of seaweed soup sit next to other flavors like spicy beef and pine nut and soybean, a shade of creamy beige so calming, one glance is enough to effectively absolve the color of its dull reputation.

The usual suspects are all there: tiny fried anchovies, cubes of radish kimchi and flat Saran-wrapped bibimbap kits. Lotte caters, and Yoon reminisces fondly about trays of modeum jeon, assorted fritters and pancakes her family would order each New Year’s.

Han Kook Market’s prepared vegetable banchan, kimchi and soups.

“I wish there were restaurants that sold them, but you see them everywhere in Korean grocery stores,” she remarks as beads of neon dance behind her on a big rectangular screen. “Catering!” the sign reads, each letter bouncing up and down Cocomelon-style. “Kobe Beef!”

As we head down Foothill, flickers of a broader K-town are revealed in signs for doctors’ offices, beauty salons and afterschool programs. But surprisingly, the Korean restaurants are few and far between.

“A lot of the places I used to go to when I was young aren’t here anymore,” Yoon says as we pass a shuttered favorite. “But those that have stayed haven’t changed one bit.” Take Hello Pizza, one of the few restaurants in the city to offer a pizza crust stuffed with sweet potato puree, a style popularized in Korea, in flavors like bulgogi and an intriguing “Shrimp Gold” with mushrooms, corn and Cajun shrimp.

Pull into the parking lot at Han Kook Market, where you’ll find tteok bokki in the freezer section, stacks of Buldak and fresh vegetables. (Amanda Villarosa / For The Times)

A dedication to organization is evident even before we enter the doors of Seoul Market. Hundreds of sauces meticulously arranged in neat rows, like soldiers standing at attention, greet us. Yoon points to the shelf. “Erewhon,” she says with a smirk.

This pattern repeats throughout the store, which is bigger, although only by a little, than Lotte Market.

In the back, like a teacher in the front of their class, a list of kimchi offerings oversees the banchan. Perilla, green onion, vegan cabbage and “ponytail” kimchi made with long-leafed radishes appear in the catalog. Near the cash registers are packs of desserts from Jihwaja Bakery, like the geodic kkul tteok, stuffed with honey and sesame.

Signs for deals are posted to a bulletin board outside of Han Kook Market. An employee restocks a freezer. (Amanda Villarosa / For The Times)

The meat department calls to us, and as Yoon and I pace the counter, we’re hypnotized by the kaleidoscopic marbling on the pre-cut jowl, short rib and brisket.

“I go to K-town to visit my mom twice a week, but I don’t really grocery shop there, it’s too crowded,” says Tanya Yu, an employee at Seoul Market who’s been living in the area for over 30 years. “I can find most of what I need here.” And it’s not just Yu who thinks that. “Sometimes we’re surprised because Armenian people, white people, come in here and buy all the ingredients they need to make their own kimchi!” she tells us.

Step into Seoul Market and find thousands of products meticulously arranged in neat rows. Near the cash registers are packs of desserts from Jihwaja Bakery.

The sun hits La Crescenta differently. Need proof? Just look at the signs. Like a kid who’s outgrown his clothes, the white lettering that spells “Palace Cleaners” in a strip mall off Foothill Boulevard has ballooned into a cramped, pudgy caricature of its once slender self. Off Ramsdell Avenue sits a large white sign with mirage-faint lettering, the only indicator that it could have been a music store is the presence of one misty stoic treble clef.

“It’s hot!” says Roy Shin when asked about the differences between living in the foothills versus Torrance. Shin, the owner of La Crescenta Han Kook Market — located in the Flamingo Plaza strip mall off Foothill, where the vinyl flamingos that adorn its sign have lost their heads entirely — moved from the South Bay in 2025 after buying the 30-plus-year-old market.

Given its size, HK Market doesn’t offer the same variety of product as the other two stores, but that’s not for lack of trying; every nook and cranny of the small space has a utility. Boxes of Buldak are stacked on the tops of refrigerators until they kiss the ceiling. Korean box dyes, candies and hangover cures enshrine the cash register.

And you never know what you may find in the long reach in the freezer. On my trip with Yoon, a handful of wrapped mackerels were lingering somewhere near the edamame. On another, a smattering of breaded cutlets were quickly snapped up by customers passing through.

Packages of prepared kimbap, tubs of gochujang and Korean snacks beckon from the shelves of Han Kook Market. (Amanda Villarosa / For The Times)

Maybe it’s because I always seem to end up here when the banchan is being made (a bubbling pot of beef stew on the stove and a line of mackerels sizzling on the griddle) but my heart is with HK. Here, the black beans swim a little deeper in their brine and near the tinned lychees I spot a few cans of Whole Foods 365 evaporated milk.

It doesn’t take much effort to imagine a young Yoon sent around the corner by her mother to pick up a missing ingredient as she tells me she used to do back when she lived up the street. It’s the kind of local market rarely found these days, one that encourages people to stay in their neighborhood.

“We try to carry all the same things as a big market.” Shin says “We try to keep the prices down so people don’t have to drive into L.A.”

When asked why Shin decided to make the switch from fashion to grocery, he says, “I just thought it was a great market.”

When driving on Foothill Boulevard into La Crescenta, as the road bursts out of neighboring La Cañada Flintridge and shuffles its way in between the Verdugo Mountains and the Angeles National Forest, one begins to realize why this community is nicknamed “The Balcony of Southern California.”

The mountains seemingly hoist the road up into the air and hold it, like how a parent holds a toddler up to a too-high fence to get a better view. In this case, that view is westward, into the Valley, or eastward, farther into California, and then into the rest of the country, as the road evolves into Route 66.

For many, this section of Foothill is a route from one place to another. But today, for me, it’s a destination. The neighborhood is far from Los Angeles’ Koreatown, and yet, I’m here to pick up marinated bulgogi; dangmyeon, the bouncy sweet potato noodles; and jangajji, crunchy veg pickled in soy brine for a Korean dinner I’m cooking later in the night.

For many L.A.-area residents, La Crescenta is the closest Koreatown. On a two-mile stretch of Foothill Boulevard, three bustling grocery stores offer produce, prepared foods such as fresh banchan and Korean brands.

That’s because, as an Eagle Rock resident, La Crescenta is my closest Koreatown. And while they are by no means comparable in size to their K-town cousins, three bustling Korean grocery stores live on a stretch of Foothill Boulevard less than two miles long, each more charming than the last.

The exterior sign at Lotte Market, the first store of the row, is crowned by the rugged tips of the Angeles Forest that peek out from behind it. Inside, a giant wall decal of four perfect apples catches my eye as we walk in; it frames the mirrored produce shelves, accentuating the curly frills of chrysanthemum leaves, the bundles of taut smooth scallions and stalky minari.

In the seafood section, a peek in the cooler reveals frozen abalone, shrimp, small octopus with bulbous heads, and bags upon bags of frozen dumplings. The yellow eyes of four long skinny beltfish on ice furtively follow us as we wander the room.

Freshly prepped ingredients in the butcher section at Han Kook Market.

“Maybe this is a personal opinion,” private chef Nina Yoon tells me as she weaves her way toward the back of the store, “but they have the best prepared foods, the best banchan.” Yoon, who spent ages 14 to 28 living just down the street and around the corner from Lotte, beckons me to the cold case. Like scoops of an ocean unmarred by humans, quarts of seaweed soup sit next to other flavors like spicy beef and pine nut and soybean, a shade of creamy beige so calming, one glance is enough to effectively absolve the color of its dull reputation.

The usual suspects are all there: tiny fried anchovies, cubes of radish kimchi and flat Saran-wrapped bibimbap kits. Lotte caters, and Yoon reminisces fondly about trays of modeum jeon, assorted fritters and pancakes her family would order each New Year’s.

Han Kook Market’s prepared vegetable banchan, kimchi and soups.

“I wish there were restaurants that sold them, but you see them everywhere in Korean grocery stores,” she remarks as beads of neon dance behind her on a big rectangular screen. “Catering!” the sign reads, each letter bouncing up and down Cocomelon-style. “Kobe Beef!”

As we head down Foothill, flickers of a broader K-town are revealed in signs for doctors’ offices, beauty salons and afterschool programs. But surprisingly, the Korean restaurants are few and far between.

“A lot of the places I used to go to when I was young aren’t here anymore,” Yoon says as we pass a shuttered favorite. “But those that have stayed haven’t changed one bit.” Take Hello Pizza, one of the few restaurants in the city to offer a pizza crust stuffed with sweet potato puree, a style popularized in Korea, in flavors like bulgogi and an intriguing “Shrimp Gold” with mushrooms, corn and Cajun shrimp.

Pull into the parking lot at Han Kook Market, where you’ll find tteok bokki in the freezer section, stacks of Buldak and fresh vegetables. (Amanda Villarosa / For The Times)

A dedication to organization is evident even before we enter the doors of Seoul Market. Hundreds of sauces meticulously arranged in neat rows, like soldiers standing at attention, greet us. Yoon points to the shelf. “Erewhon,” she says with a smirk.

This pattern repeats throughout the store, which is bigger, although only by a little, than Lotte Market.

In the back, like a teacher in the front of their class, a list of kimchi offerings oversees the banchan. Perilla, green onion, vegan cabbage and “ponytail” kimchi made with long-leafed radishes appear in the catalog. Near the cash registers are packs of desserts from Jihwaja Bakery, like the geodic kkul tteok, stuffed with honey and sesame.

Signs for deals are posted to a bulletin board outside of Han Kook Market. An employee restocks a freezer. (Amanda Villarosa / For The Times)

The meat department calls to us, and as Yoon and I pace the counter, we’re hypnotized by the kaleidoscopic marbling on the pre-cut jowl, short rib and brisket.

“I go to K-town to visit my mom twice a week, but I don’t really grocery shop there, it’s too crowded,” says Tanya Yu, an employee at Seoul Market who’s been living in the area for over 30 years. “I can find most of what I need here.” And it’s not just Yu who thinks that. “Sometimes we’re surprised because Armenian people, white people, come in here and buy all the ingredients they need to make their own kimchi!” she tells us.

Step into Seoul Market and find thousands of products meticulously arranged in neat rows. Near the cash registers are packs of desserts from Jihwaja Bakery.

The sun hits La Crescenta differently. Need proof? Just look at the signs. Like a kid who’s outgrown his clothes, the white lettering that spells “Palace Cleaners” in a strip mall off Foothill Boulevard has ballooned into a cramped, pudgy caricature of its once slender self. Off Ramsdell Avenue sits a large white sign with mirage-faint lettering, the only indicator that it could have been a music store is the presence of one misty stoic treble clef.

“It’s hot!” says Roy Shin when asked about the differences between living in the foothills versus Torrance. Shin, the owner of La Crescenta Han Kook Market — located in the Flamingo Plaza strip mall off Foothill, where the vinyl flamingos that adorn its sign have lost their heads entirely — moved from the South Bay in 2025 after buying the 30-plus-year-old market.

Given its size, HK Market doesn’t offer the same variety of product as the other two stores, but that’s not for lack of trying; every nook and cranny of the small space has a utility. Boxes of Buldak are stacked on the tops of refrigerators until they kiss the ceiling. Korean box dyes, candies and hangover cures enshrine the cash register.

And you never know what you may find in the long reach in the freezer. On my trip with Yoon, a handful of wrapped mackerels were lingering somewhere near the edamame. On another, a smattering of breaded cutlets were quickly snapped up by customers passing through.

Packages of prepared kimbap, tubs of gochujang and Korean snacks beckon from the shelves of Han Kook Market. (Amanda Villarosa / For The Times)

Maybe it’s because I always seem to end up here when the banchan is being made (a bubbling pot of beef stew on the stove and a line of mackerels sizzling on the griddle) but my heart is with HK. Here, the black beans swim a little deeper in their brine and near the tinned lychees I spot a few cans of Whole Foods 365 evaporated milk.

It doesn’t take much effort to imagine a young Yoon sent around the corner by her mother to pick up a missing ingredient as she tells me she used to do back when she lived up the street. It’s the kind of local market rarely found these days, one that encourages people to stay in their neighborhood.

“We try to carry all the same things as a big market.” Shin says “We try to keep the prices down so people don’t have to drive into L.A.”

When asked why Shin decided to make the switch from fashion to grocery, he says, “I just thought it was a great market.”

When driving on Foothill Boulevard into La Crescenta, as the road bursts out of neighboring La Cañada Flintridge and shuffles its way in between the Verdugo Mountains and the Angeles National Forest, one begins to realize why this community is nicknamed “The Balcony of Southern California.”

The mountains seemingly hoist the road up into the air and hold it, like how a parent holds a toddler up to a too-high fence to get a better view. In this case, that view is westward, into the Valley, or eastward, farther into California, and then into the rest of the country, as the road evolves into Route 66.

For many, this section of Foothill is a route from one place to another. But today, for me, it’s a destination. The neighborhood is far from Los Angeles’ Koreatown, and yet, I’m here to pick up marinated bulgogi; dangmyeon, the bouncy sweet potato noodles; and jangajji, crunchy veg pickled in soy brine for a Korean dinner I’m cooking later in the night.

For many L.A.-area residents, La Crescenta is the closest Koreatown. On a two-mile stretch of Foothill Boulevard, three bustling grocery stores offer produce, prepared foods such as fresh banchan and Korean brands.

That’s because, as an Eagle Rock resident, La Crescenta is my closest Koreatown. And while they are by no means comparable in size to their K-town cousins, three bustling Korean grocery stores live on a stretch of Foothill Boulevard less than two miles long, each more charming than the last.

The exterior sign at Lotte Market, the first store of the row, is crowned by the rugged tips of the Angeles Forest that peek out from behind it. Inside, a giant wall decal of four perfect apples catches my eye as we walk in; it frames the mirrored produce shelves, accentuating the curly frills of chrysanthemum leaves, the bundles of taut smooth scallions and stalky minari.

In the seafood section, a peek in the cooler reveals frozen abalone, shrimp, small octopus with bulbous heads, and bags upon bags of frozen dumplings. The yellow eyes of four long skinny beltfish on ice furtively follow us as we wander the room.

Freshly prepped ingredients in the butcher section at Han Kook Market.

“Maybe this is a personal opinion,” private chef Nina Yoon tells me as she weaves her way toward the back of the store, “but they have the best prepared foods, the best banchan.” Yoon, who spent ages 14 to 28 living just down the street and around the corner from Lotte, beckons me to the cold case. Like scoops of an ocean unmarred by humans, quarts of seaweed soup sit next to other flavors like spicy beef and pine nut and soybean, a shade of creamy beige so calming, one glance is enough to effectively absolve the color of its dull reputation.

The usual suspects are all there: tiny fried anchovies, cubes of radish kimchi and flat Saran-wrapped bibimbap kits. Lotte caters, and Yoon reminisces fondly about trays of modeum jeon, assorted fritters and pancakes her family would order each New Year’s.

Han Kook Market’s prepared vegetable banchan, kimchi and soups.

“I wish there were restaurants that sold them, but you see them everywhere in Korean grocery stores,” she remarks as beads of neon dance behind her on a big rectangular screen. “Catering!” the sign reads, each letter bouncing up and down Cocomelon-style. “Kobe Beef!”

As we head down Foothill, flickers of a broader K-town are revealed in signs for doctors’ offices, beauty salons and afterschool programs. But surprisingly, the Korean restaurants are few and far between.

“A lot of the places I used to go to when I was young aren’t here anymore,” Yoon says as we pass a shuttered favorite. “But those that have stayed haven’t changed one bit.” Take Hello Pizza, one of the few restaurants in the city to offer a pizza crust stuffed with sweet potato puree, a style popularized in Korea, in flavors like bulgogi and an intriguing “Shrimp Gold” with mushrooms, corn and Cajun shrimp.

Pull into the parking lot at Han Kook Market, where you’ll find tteok bokki in the freezer section, stacks of Buldak and fresh vegetables. (Amanda Villarosa / For The Times)

A dedication to organization is evident even before we enter the doors of Seoul Market. Hundreds of sauces meticulously arranged in neat rows, like soldiers standing at attention, greet us. Yoon points to the shelf. “Erewhon,” she says with a smirk.

This pattern repeats throughout the store, which is bigger, although only by a little, than Lotte Market.

In the back, like a teacher in the front of their class, a list of kimchi offerings oversees the banchan. Perilla, green onion, vegan cabbage and “ponytail” kimchi made with long-leafed radishes appear in the catalog. Near the cash registers are packs of desserts from Jihwaja Bakery, like the geodic kkul tteok, stuffed with honey and sesame.

Signs for deals are posted to a bulletin board outside of Han Kook Market. An employee restocks a freezer. (Amanda Villarosa / For The Times)

The meat department calls to us, and as Yoon and I pace the counter, we’re hypnotized by the kaleidoscopic marbling on the pre-cut jowl, short rib and brisket.

“I go to K-town to visit my mom twice a week, but I don’t really grocery shop there, it’s too crowded,” says Tanya Yu, an employee at Seoul Market who’s been living in the area for over 30 years. “I can find most of what I need here.” And it’s not just Yu who thinks that. “Sometimes we’re surprised because Armenian people, white people, come in here and buy all the ingredients they need to make their own kimchi!” she tells us.

Step into Seoul Market and find thousands of products meticulously arranged in neat rows. Near the cash registers are packs of desserts from Jihwaja Bakery.

The sun hits La Crescenta differently. Need proof? Just look at the signs. Like a kid who’s outgrown his clothes, the white lettering that spells “Palace Cleaners” in a strip mall off Foothill Boulevard has ballooned into a cramped, pudgy caricature of its once slender self. Off Ramsdell Avenue sits a large white sign with mirage-faint lettering, the only indicator that it could have been a music store is the presence of one misty stoic treble clef.

“It’s hot!” says Roy Shin when asked about the differences between living in the foothills versus Torrance. Shin, the owner of La Crescenta Han Kook Market — located in the Flamingo Plaza strip mall off Foothill, where the vinyl flamingos that adorn its sign have lost their heads entirely — moved from the South Bay in 2025 after buying the 30-plus-year-old market.

Given its size, HK Market doesn’t offer the same variety of product as the other two stores, but that’s not for lack of trying; every nook and cranny of the small space has a utility. Boxes of Buldak are stacked on the tops of refrigerators until they kiss the ceiling. Korean box dyes, candies and hangover cures enshrine the cash register.

And you never know what you may find in the long reach in the freezer. On my trip with Yoon, a handful of wrapped mackerels were lingering somewhere near the edamame. On another, a smattering of breaded cutlets were quickly snapped up by customers passing through.

Packages of prepared kimbap, tubs of gochujang and Korean snacks beckon from the shelves of Han Kook Market. (Amanda Villarosa / For The Times)

Maybe it’s because I always seem to end up here when the banchan is being made (a bubbling pot of beef stew on the stove and a line of mackerels sizzling on the griddle) but my heart is with HK. Here, the black beans swim a little deeper in their brine and near the tinned lychees I spot a few cans of Whole Foods 365 evaporated milk.

It doesn’t take much effort to imagine a young Yoon sent around the corner by her mother to pick up a missing ingredient as she tells me she used to do back when she lived up the street. It’s the kind of local market rarely found these days, one that encourages people to stay in their neighborhood.

“We try to carry all the same things as a big market.” Shin says “We try to keep the prices down so people don’t have to drive into L.A.”

When asked why Shin decided to make the switch from fashion to grocery, he says, “I just thought it was a great market.”

When driving on Foothill Boulevard into La Crescenta, as the road bursts out of neighboring La Cañada Flintridge and shuffles its way in between the Verdugo Mountains and the Angeles National Forest, one begins to realize why this community is nicknamed “The Balcony of Southern California.”

The mountains seemingly hoist the road up into the air and hold it, like how a parent holds a toddler up to a too-high fence to get a better view. In this case, that view is westward, into the Valley, or eastward, farther into California, and then into the rest of the country, as the road evolves into Route 66.

For many, this section of Foothill is a route from one place to another. But today, for me, it’s a destination. The neighborhood is far from Los Angeles’ Koreatown, and yet, I’m here to pick up marinated bulgogi; dangmyeon, the bouncy sweet potato noodles; and jangajji, crunchy veg pickled in soy brine for a Korean dinner I’m cooking later in the night.

For many L.A.-area residents, La Crescenta is the closest Koreatown. On a two-mile stretch of Foothill Boulevard, three bustling grocery stores offer produce, prepared foods such as fresh banchan and Korean brands.

That’s because, as an Eagle Rock resident, La Crescenta is my closest Koreatown. And while they are by no means comparable in size to their K-town cousins, three bustling Korean grocery stores live on a stretch of Foothill Boulevard less than two miles long, each more charming than the last.

The exterior sign at Lotte Market, the first store of the row, is crowned by the rugged tips of the Angeles Forest that peek out from behind it. Inside, a giant wall decal of four perfect apples catches my eye as we walk in; it frames the mirrored produce shelves, accentuating the curly frills of chrysanthemum leaves, the bundles of taut smooth scallions and stalky minari.

In the seafood section, a peek in the cooler reveals frozen abalone, shrimp, small octopus with bulbous heads, and bags upon bags of frozen dumplings. The yellow eyes of four long skinny beltfish on ice furtively follow us as we wander the room.

Freshly prepped ingredients in the butcher section at Han Kook Market.

“Maybe this is a personal opinion,” private chef Nina Yoon tells me as she weaves her way toward the back of the store, “but they have the best prepared foods, the best banchan.” Yoon, who spent ages 14 to 28 living just down the street and around the corner from Lotte, beckons me to the cold case. Like scoops of an ocean unmarred by humans, quarts of seaweed soup sit next to other flavors like spicy beef and pine nut and soybean, a shade of creamy beige so calming, one glance is enough to effectively absolve the color of its dull reputation.

The usual suspects are all there: tiny fried anchovies, cubes of radish kimchi and flat Saran-wrapped bibimbap kits. Lotte caters, and Yoon reminisces fondly about trays of modeum jeon, assorted fritters and pancakes her family would order each New Year’s.

Han Kook Market’s prepared vegetable banchan, kimchi and soups.

“I wish there were restaurants that sold them, but you see them everywhere in Korean grocery stores,” she remarks as beads of neon dance behind her on a big rectangular screen. “Catering!” the sign reads, each letter bouncing up and down Cocomelon-style. “Kobe Beef!”

As we head down Foothill, flickers of a broader K-town are revealed in signs for doctors’ offices, beauty salons and afterschool programs. But surprisingly, the Korean restaurants are few and far between.

“A lot of the places I used to go to when I was young aren’t here anymore,” Yoon says as we pass a shuttered favorite. “But those that have stayed haven’t changed one bit.” Take Hello Pizza, one of the few restaurants in the city to offer a pizza crust stuffed with sweet potato puree, a style popularized in Korea, in flavors like bulgogi and an intriguing “Shrimp Gold” with mushrooms, corn and Cajun shrimp.

Pull into the parking lot at Han Kook Market, where you’ll find tteok bokki in the freezer section, stacks of Buldak and fresh vegetables. (Amanda Villarosa / For The Times)

A dedication to organization is evident even before we enter the doors of Seoul Market. Hundreds of sauces meticulously arranged in neat rows, like soldiers standing at attention, greet us. Yoon points to the shelf. “Erewhon,” she says with a smirk.

This pattern repeats throughout the store, which is bigger, although only by a little, than Lotte Market.

In the back, like a teacher in the front of their class, a list of kimchi offerings oversees the banchan. Perilla, green onion, vegan cabbage and “ponytail” kimchi made with long-leafed radishes appear in the catalog. Near the cash registers are packs of desserts from Jihwaja Bakery, like the geodic kkul tteok, stuffed with honey and sesame.

Signs for deals are posted to a bulletin board outside of Han Kook Market. An employee restocks a freezer. (Amanda Villarosa / For The Times)

The meat department calls to us, and as Yoon and I pace the counter, we’re hypnotized by the kaleidoscopic marbling on the pre-cut jowl, short rib and brisket.

“I go to K-town to visit my mom twice a week, but I don’t really grocery shop there, it’s too crowded,” says Tanya Yu, an employee at Seoul Market who’s been living in the area for over 30 years. “I can find most of what I need here.” And it’s not just Yu who thinks that. “Sometimes we’re surprised because Armenian people, white people, come in here and buy all the ingredients they need to make their own kimchi!” she tells us.

Step into Seoul Market and find thousands of products meticulously arranged in neat rows. Near the cash registers are packs of desserts from Jihwaja Bakery.

The sun hits La Crescenta differently. Need proof? Just look at the signs. Like a kid who’s outgrown his clothes, the white lettering that spells “Palace Cleaners” in a strip mall off Foothill Boulevard has ballooned into a cramped, pudgy caricature of its once slender self. Off Ramsdell Avenue sits a large white sign with mirage-faint lettering, the only indicator that it could have been a music store is the presence of one misty stoic treble clef.

“It’s hot!” says Roy Shin when asked about the differences between living in the foothills versus Torrance. Shin, the owner of La Crescenta Han Kook Market — located in the Flamingo Plaza strip mall off Foothill, where the vinyl flamingos that adorn its sign have lost their heads entirely — moved from the South Bay in 2025 after buying the 30-plus-year-old market.

Given its size, HK Market doesn’t offer the same variety of product as the other two stores, but that’s not for lack of trying; every nook and cranny of the small space has a utility. Boxes of Buldak are stacked on the tops of refrigerators until they kiss the ceiling. Korean box dyes, candies and hangover cures enshrine the cash register.

And you never know what you may find in the long reach in the freezer. On my trip with Yoon, a handful of wrapped mackerels were lingering somewhere near the edamame. On another, a smattering of breaded cutlets were quickly snapped up by customers passing through.

Packages of prepared kimbap, tubs of gochujang and Korean snacks beckon from the shelves of Han Kook Market. (Amanda Villarosa / For The Times)

Maybe it’s because I always seem to end up here when the banchan is being made (a bubbling pot of beef stew on the stove and a line of mackerels sizzling on the griddle) but my heart is with HK. Here, the black beans swim a little deeper in their brine and near the tinned lychees I spot a few cans of Whole Foods 365 evaporated milk.

It doesn’t take much effort to imagine a young Yoon sent around the corner by her mother to pick up a missing ingredient as she tells me she used to do back when she lived up the street. It’s the kind of local market rarely found these days, one that encourages people to stay in their neighborhood.

“We try to carry all the same things as a big market.” Shin says “We try to keep the prices down so people don’t have to drive into L.A.”

When asked why Shin decided to make the switch from fashion to grocery, he says, “I just thought it was a great market.”

When driving on Foothill Boulevard into La Crescenta, as the road bursts out of neighboring La Cañada Flintridge and shuffles its way in between the Verdugo Mountains and the Angeles National Forest, one begins to realize why this community is nicknamed “The Balcony of Southern California.”

The mountains seemingly hoist the road up into the air and hold it, like how a parent holds a toddler up to a too-high fence to get a better view. In this case, that view is westward, into the Valley, or eastward, farther into California, and then into the rest of the country, as the road evolves into Route 66.

For many, this section of Foothill is a route from one place to another. But today, for me, it’s a destination. The neighborhood is far from Los Angeles’ Koreatown, and yet, I’m here to pick up marinated bulgogi; dangmyeon, the bouncy sweet potato noodles; and jangajji, crunchy veg pickled in soy brine for a Korean dinner I’m cooking later in the night.

For many L.A.-area residents, La Crescenta is the closest Koreatown. On a two-mile stretch of Foothill Boulevard, three bustling grocery stores offer produce, prepared foods such as fresh banchan and Korean brands.

That’s because, as an Eagle Rock resident, La Crescenta is my closest Koreatown. And while they are by no means comparable in size to their K-town cousins, three bustling Korean grocery stores live on a stretch of Foothill Boulevard less than two miles long, each more charming than the last.

The exterior sign at Lotte Market, the first store of the row, is crowned by the rugged tips of the Angeles Forest that peek out from behind it. Inside, a giant wall decal of four perfect apples catches my eye as we walk in; it frames the mirrored produce shelves, accentuating the curly frills of chrysanthemum leaves, the bundles of taut smooth scallions and stalky minari.

In the seafood section, a peek in the cooler reveals frozen abalone, shrimp, small octopus with bulbous heads, and bags upon bags of frozen dumplings. The yellow eyes of four long skinny beltfish on ice furtively follow us as we wander the room.

Freshly prepped ingredients in the butcher section at Han Kook Market.

“Maybe this is a personal opinion,” private chef Nina Yoon tells me as she weaves her way toward the back of the store, “but they have the best prepared foods, the best banchan.” Yoon, who spent ages 14 to 28 living just down the street and around the corner from Lotte, beckons me to the cold case. Like scoops of an ocean unmarred by humans, quarts of seaweed soup sit next to other flavors like spicy beef and pine nut and soybean, a shade of creamy beige so calming, one glance is enough to effectively absolve the color of its dull reputation.

The usual suspects are all there: tiny fried anchovies, cubes of radish kimchi and flat Saran-wrapped bibimbap kits. Lotte caters, and Yoon reminisces fondly about trays of modeum jeon, assorted fritters and pancakes her family would order each New Year’s.

Han Kook Market’s prepared vegetable banchan, kimchi and soups.

“I wish there were restaurants that sold them, but you see them everywhere in Korean grocery stores,” she remarks as beads of neon dance behind her on a big rectangular screen. “Catering!” the sign reads, each letter bouncing up and down Cocomelon-style. “Kobe Beef!”

As we head down Foothill, flickers of a broader K-town are revealed in signs for doctors’ offices, beauty salons and afterschool programs. But surprisingly, the Korean restaurants are few and far between.

“A lot of the places I used to go to when I was young aren’t here anymore,” Yoon says as we pass a shuttered favorite. “But those that have stayed haven’t changed one bit.” Take Hello Pizza, one of the few restaurants in the city to offer a pizza crust stuffed with sweet potato puree, a style popularized in Korea, in flavors like bulgogi and an intriguing “Shrimp Gold” with mushrooms, corn and Cajun shrimp.

Pull into the parking lot at Han Kook Market, where you’ll find tteok bokki in the freezer section, stacks of Buldak and fresh vegetables. (Amanda Villarosa / For The Times)

A dedication to organization is evident even before we enter the doors of Seoul Market. Hundreds of sauces meticulously arranged in neat rows, like soldiers standing at attention, greet us. Yoon points to the shelf. “Erewhon,” she says with a smirk.

This pattern repeats throughout the store, which is bigger, although only by a little, than Lotte Market.

In the back, like a teacher in the front of their class, a list of kimchi offerings oversees the banchan. Perilla, green onion, vegan cabbage and “ponytail” kimchi made with long-leafed radishes appear in the catalog. Near the cash registers are packs of desserts from Jihwaja Bakery, like the geodic kkul tteok, stuffed with honey and sesame.

Signs for deals are posted to a bulletin board outside of Han Kook Market. An employee restocks a freezer. (Amanda Villarosa / For The Times)

The meat department calls to us, and as Yoon and I pace the counter, we’re hypnotized by the kaleidoscopic marbling on the pre-cut jowl, short rib and brisket.

“I go to K-town to visit my mom twice a week, but I don’t really grocery shop there, it’s too crowded,” says Tanya Yu, an employee at Seoul Market who’s been living in the area for over 30 years. “I can find most of what I need here.” And it’s not just Yu who thinks that. “Sometimes we’re surprised because Armenian people, white people, come in here and buy all the ingredients they need to make their own kimchi!” she tells us.

Step into Seoul Market and find thousands of products meticulously arranged in neat rows. Near the cash registers are packs of desserts from Jihwaja Bakery.

The sun hits La Crescenta differently. Need proof? Just look at the signs. Like a kid who’s outgrown his clothes, the white lettering that spells “Palace Cleaners” in a strip mall off Foothill Boulevard has ballooned into a cramped, pudgy caricature of its once slender self. Off Ramsdell Avenue sits a large white sign with mirage-faint lettering, the only indicator that it could have been a music store is the presence of one misty stoic treble clef.

“It’s hot!” says Roy Shin when asked about the differences between living in the foothills versus Torrance. Shin, the owner of La Crescenta Han Kook Market — located in the Flamingo Plaza strip mall off Foothill, where the vinyl flamingos that adorn its sign have lost their heads entirely — moved from the South Bay in 2025 after buying the 30-plus-year-old market.

Given its size, HK Market doesn’t offer the same variety of product as the other two stores, but that’s not for lack of trying; every nook and cranny of the small space has a utility. Boxes of Buldak are stacked on the tops of refrigerators until they kiss the ceiling. Korean box dyes, candies and hangover cures enshrine the cash register.

And you never know what you may find in the long reach in the freezer. On my trip with Yoon, a handful of wrapped mackerels were lingering somewhere near the edamame. On another, a smattering of breaded cutlets were quickly snapped up by customers passing through.

Packages of prepared kimbap, tubs of gochujang and Korean snacks beckon from the shelves of Han Kook Market. (Amanda Villarosa / For The Times)

Maybe it’s because I always seem to end up here when the banchan is being made (a bubbling pot of beef stew on the stove and a line of mackerels sizzling on the griddle) but my heart is with HK. Here, the black beans swim a little deeper in their brine and near the tinned lychees I spot a few cans of Whole Foods 365 evaporated milk.

It doesn’t take much effort to imagine a young Yoon sent around the corner by her mother to pick up a missing ingredient as she tells me she used to do back when she lived up the street. It’s the kind of local market rarely found these days, one that encourages people to stay in their neighborhood.

“We try to carry all the same things as a big market.” Shin says “We try to keep the prices down so people don’t have to drive into L.A.”

When asked why Shin decided to make the switch from fashion to grocery, he says, “I just thought it was a great market.”

When driving on Foothill Boulevard into La Crescenta, as the road bursts out of neighboring La Cañada Flintridge and shuffles its way in between the Verdugo Mountains and the Angeles National Forest, one begins to realize why this community is nicknamed “The Balcony of Southern California.”

The mountains seemingly hoist the road up into the air and hold it, like how a parent holds a toddler up to a too-high fence to get a better view. In this case, that view is westward, into the Valley, or eastward, farther into California, and then into the rest of the country, as the road evolves into Route 66.

For many, this section of Foothill is a route from one place to another. But today, for me, it’s a destination. The neighborhood is far from Los Angeles’ Koreatown, and yet, I’m here to pick up marinated bulgogi; dangmyeon, the bouncy sweet potato noodles; and jangajji, crunchy veg pickled in soy brine for a Korean dinner I’m cooking later in the night.

For many L.A.-area residents, La Crescenta is the closest Koreatown. On a two-mile stretch of Foothill Boulevard, three bustling grocery stores offer produce, prepared foods such as fresh banchan and Korean brands.

That’s because, as an Eagle Rock resident, La Crescenta is my closest Koreatown. And while they are by no means comparable in size to their K-town cousins, three bustling Korean grocery stores live on a stretch of Foothill Boulevard less than two miles long, each more charming than the last.

The exterior sign at Lotte Market, the first store of the row, is crowned by the rugged tips of the Angeles Forest that peek out from behind it. Inside, a giant wall decal of four perfect apples catches my eye as we walk in; it frames the mirrored produce shelves, accentuating the curly frills of chrysanthemum leaves, the bundles of taut smooth scallions and stalky minari.

In the seafood section, a peek in the cooler reveals frozen abalone, shrimp, small octopus with bulbous heads, and bags upon bags of frozen dumplings. The yellow eyes of four long skinny beltfish on ice furtively follow us as we wander the room.

Freshly prepped ingredients in the butcher section at Han Kook Market.

“Maybe this is a personal opinion,” private chef Nina Yoon tells me as she weaves her way toward the back of the store, “but they have the best prepared foods, the best banchan.” Yoon, who spent ages 14 to 28 living just down the street and around the corner from Lotte, beckons me to the cold case. Like scoops of an ocean unmarred by humans, quarts of seaweed soup sit next to other flavors like spicy beef and pine nut and soybean, a shade of creamy beige so calming, one glance is enough to effectively absolve the color of its dull reputation.

The usual suspects are all there: tiny fried anchovies, cubes of radish kimchi and flat Saran-wrapped bibimbap kits. Lotte caters, and Yoon reminisces fondly about trays of modeum jeon, assorted fritters and pancakes her family would order each New Year’s.

Han Kook Market’s prepared vegetable banchan, kimchi and soups.

“I wish there were restaurants that sold them, but you see them everywhere in Korean grocery stores,” she remarks as beads of neon dance behind her on a big rectangular screen. “Catering!” the sign reads, each letter bouncing up and down Cocomelon-style. “Kobe Beef!”

As we head down Foothill, flickers of a broader K-town are revealed in signs for doctors’ offices, beauty salons and afterschool programs. But surprisingly, the Korean restaurants are few and far between.

“A lot of the places I used to go to when I was young aren’t here anymore,” Yoon says as we pass a shuttered favorite. “But those that have stayed haven’t changed one bit.” Take Hello Pizza, one of the few restaurants in the city to offer a pizza crust stuffed with sweet potato puree, a style popularized in Korea, in flavors like bulgogi and an intriguing “Shrimp Gold” with mushrooms, corn and Cajun shrimp.

Pull into the parking lot at Han Kook Market, where you’ll find tteok bokki in the freezer section, stacks of Buldak and fresh vegetables. (Amanda Villarosa / For The Times)

A dedication to organization is evident even before we enter the doors of Seoul Market. Hundreds of sauces meticulously arranged in neat rows, like soldiers standing at attention, greet us. Yoon points to the shelf. “Erewhon,” she says with a smirk.

This pattern repeats throughout the store, which is bigger, although only by a little, than Lotte Market.

In the back, like a teacher in the front of their class, a list of kimchi offerings oversees the banchan. Perilla, green onion, vegan cabbage and “ponytail” kimchi made with long-leafed radishes appear in the catalog. Near the cash registers are packs of desserts from Jihwaja Bakery, like the geodic kkul tteok, stuffed with honey and sesame.

Signs for deals are posted to a bulletin board outside of Han Kook Market. An employee restocks a freezer. (Amanda Villarosa / For The Times)

The meat department calls to us, and as Yoon and I pace the counter, we’re hypnotized by the kaleidoscopic marbling on the pre-cut jowl, short rib and brisket.

“I go to K-town to visit my mom twice a week, but I don’t really grocery shop there, it’s too crowded,” says Tanya Yu, an employee at Seoul Market who’s been living in the area for over 30 years. “I can find most of what I need here.” And it’s not just Yu who thinks that. “Sometimes we’re surprised because Armenian people, white people, come in here and buy all the ingredients they need to make their own kimchi!” she tells us.

Step into Seoul Market and find thousands of products meticulously arranged in neat rows. Near the cash registers are packs of desserts from Jihwaja Bakery.

The sun hits La Crescenta differently. Need proof? Just look at the signs. Like a kid who’s outgrown his clothes, the white lettering that spells “Palace Cleaners” in a strip mall off Foothill Boulevard has ballooned into a cramped, pudgy caricature of its once slender self. Off Ramsdell Avenue sits a large white sign with mirage-faint lettering, the only indicator that it could have been a music store is the presence of one misty stoic treble clef.

“It’s hot!” says Roy Shin when asked about the differences between living in the foothills versus Torrance. Shin, the owner of La Crescenta Han Kook Market — located in the Flamingo Plaza strip mall off Foothill, where the vinyl flamingos that adorn its sign have lost their heads entirely — moved from the South Bay in 2025 after buying the 30-plus-year-old market.

Given its size, HK Market doesn’t offer the same variety of product as the other two stores, but that’s not for lack of trying; every nook and cranny of the small space has a utility. Boxes of Buldak are stacked on the tops of refrigerators until they kiss the ceiling. Korean box dyes, candies and hangover cures enshrine the cash register.

And you never know what you may find in the long reach in the freezer. On my trip with Yoon, a handful of wrapped mackerels were lingering somewhere near the edamame. On another, a smattering of breaded cutlets were quickly snapped up by customers passing through.

Packages of prepared kimbap, tubs of gochujang and Korean snacks beckon from the shelves of Han Kook Market. (Amanda Villarosa / For The Times)

Maybe it’s because I always seem to end up here when the banchan is being made (a bubbling pot of beef stew on the stove and a line of mackerels sizzling on the griddle) but my heart is with HK. Here, the black beans swim a little deeper in their brine and near the tinned lychees I spot a few cans of Whole Foods 365 evaporated milk.

It doesn’t take much effort to imagine a young Yoon sent around the corner by her mother to pick up a missing ingredient as she tells me she used to do back when she lived up the street. It’s the kind of local market rarely found these days, one that encourages people to stay in their neighborhood.

“We try to carry all the same things as a big market.” Shin says “We try to keep the prices down so people don’t have to drive into L.A.”

When asked why Shin decided to make the switch from fashion to grocery, he says, “I just thought it was a great market.”