The future of dining is arriving on a plate, and it’s not served by a human. Bullgogi in Manchester is the latest chapter in a story that’s been unfolding for decades: the slow, inevitable march of technology into the restaurant industry. If you’ve ever stared blankly at a QR code menu or watched a robot fridge spit out your salad like it’s judging you, you’ll feel right at home here. This isn’t just a Korean barbecue joint—it’s a glimpse into a world where the only interaction you’ll have is with a screen, a grill, and maybe a fleeting glance from a human who appears only when you flag them down. Personally, I find it fascinating how quickly we’ve accepted this shift, even as it feels like a betrayal of what made dining an art form in the first place.
Let’s talk about the tech. Bullgogi is the size of a small planet, with 165 covers and tabletop grills that look like they belong in a sci-fi movie. Order your gyeran jjim or dolsot bibimbap via a screen, and some unseen hand will deliver it. It’s the McDonald’s of Korean cuisine—efficient, scalable, and utterly devoid of soul. What makes this particularly fascinating is how it mirrors our broader cultural obsession with convenience over connection. We’ve traded the warmth of a server’s smile for the cold efficiency of a screen. But here’s the rub: when I flagged a food intolerance, a human appeared instantly. It’s a reminder that even in this brave new world, we still need humans to handle the messy, unpredictable parts of life. What many people don’t realize is that the tech is just a front; the real magic (or lack thereof) lies in the experience it creates.
The menu is a masterclass in diversity, but that’s not what I’m here to talk about. What I’m here to talk about is the contradiction: a restaurant that claims to cater to all palates but feels more like a cafeteria than a dining experience. There’s doenjang jjigae, sundubu jjigae, and even budae jjigae—a dish so hearty it could fuel a war. Yet, the atmosphere is sterile, the lighting harsh, and the decor screams ’90s service station. It’s a place where food is taken seriously, but the act of eating feels like a chore. A detail that I find especially interesting is how the Korean students and pensioners coexist here. It’s a bold move to bridge cultures, but the lack of ambiance makes it feel transactional rather than celebratory. If you take a step back and think about it, this is the future of dining: fast, cheap, and utterly forgettable.
And let’s not forget the tabletop grills. They’re there, but no one uses them. I watched a group of friends order bulgogi and then proceed to ignore the grill entirely. Why? Because modern diners love the idea of control but don’t want the responsibility. The grill is a gimmick, a relic of a time when cooking was part of the experience. What this really suggests is that we’ve become addicted to convenience at the expense of authenticity. The restaurant admits the grills are expensive to run and hard to service, yet they keep them anyway. It’s like a car manufacturer selling electric vehicles while still building gas stations—they’re stuck in the past.
Bullgogi is a pleasant, amenable, slightly hollow experience. You eat, you pay, you leave. No desserts, no farewell, no lingering. It’s the drive-thru Costa Coffee-ification of dining, where the human touch is an afterthought. I can’t help but wonder: when will we realize that the most memorable meals aren’t the ones with the best tech, but the ones where someone remembered your name, brought you a drink without being asked, and made you feel seen? The future of food is here, but I’m not sure I want to live in it. Treasure your servers while you have them. You’ll miss them when they’re gone.
