韓式炸雞的流星式命運：從《星你》現象到市場退潮

2014年《來自星星的你》在中國掀起颶風，千頌伊一句「下雪了，怎麼能沒有炸雞和啤酒？」瞬間將韓式炸雞推上神壇。街頭巷尾的炸雞店連夜更換菜單，黃牛代購韓國連鎖品牌，甚至出現「炸雞外賣員比快遞小哥還忙」的盛況。然而十年後的今天，曾經遍地開花的韓式炸雞店卻像退潮後的沙灘，只留下零星幾家堅守者。這場曇花一現的美食狂熱，實則暗藏消費市場的殘酷法則。

「星你效應」的虛火
劇集熱播時，韓式炸雞被鍍上一層「浪漫符號」的金邊。情侶們模仿都敏俊和千頌伊在雪中啃炸雞，社交媒體上「炸雞配啤酒」的打卡照氾濫成災。但這種熱度本質是影視IP的衍生消費——就像《魷魚遊戲》帶火糖餅後，義烏工廠趕制的模具最終堆積在倉庫。當觀眾對韓劇的新鮮感褪去，炸雞便從「潮流必需品」變回「普通速食」。更諷刺的是，劇中象徵時髦的韓式炸雞，在現實中被本土化改造得面目全非：四川店家往里加花椒，上海版本刷上甜醬，最終連韓國人都在問：「這真的是我們的炸雞嗎？」

品類戰爭的降維打擊
韓式炸雞的黃金期恰逢中國餐飲資本化浪潮。2016年後，本土炸雞品牌借助供應鏈優勢和互聯網行銷開始圍剿：正新雞排用「10元一大塊」的性價比戰略三年開店2萬家，華萊士靠「農村包圍城市」的加盟模式下沉到縣城。相比之下，韓式炸雞的「雙拼口味+醃蘿蔔」組合顯得性價比全無——當消費者發現同樣價格能買兩份本土炸雞時，所謂的「韓式正宗」立刻失去魔力。

更致命的是外賣平臺的演算法絞殺。大資料顯示，韓式炸雞的平均出餐時間比美式炸雞多8分鐘（需現調醬料），配送途中脆皮易軟化的特性又導致差評率居高不下。平臺自然將流量傾斜給出餐快、成本低的本土品牌，形成惡性循環。某韓式連鎖品牌的市場總監曾苦笑：「我們的醬料是從韓國空運的，但消費者只關心能不能在30分鐘內吃到熱乎的。」

健康焦慮與潮流反覆運算
《星你》爆紅的年代，中國消費者還在為「首次人均GDP破萬」歡呼；而今天，健身App用戶數已突破3億。輕食沙拉和低脂餐的興起，讓高熱量的韓式炸雞背負「罪惡食品」的駡名。小紅書上的年輕人開始計算：「一塊韓式甜辣雞翅=跑步機45分鐘」，這種健康焦慮直接反映在消費選擇上。

與此同時，餐飲潮流已轉向更「上鏡」的品類。韓國自己輸出的文化符號也從炸雞變成烤牛腸、醬蟹和咖啡廳，TikTok上「韓式炸雞挑戰」的播放量還不及「韓國泡面的一百種吃法」的零頭。當新一代消費者追求「餐飲+社交貨幣」時，曾經風靡的韓式炸雞既不如日式燒鳥精緻，又不如泰式奶茶適合拍照，自然被遺忘在潮流角落。

倖存者的啟示
如今仍能存活的韓式炸雞店，幾乎都完成「去韓劇化」轉型。有的結合韓國街頭文化打造主題店，有的開發出「韓式炸雞配螺螄粉」的魔幻組合。北京五道口一家開十年的老店老闆說：「《星你》帶來的客人三個月就走光了，真正留下的顧客，是那些不在乎韓國潮流、單純喜歡我家醃蘿蔔解膩的人。」這句話或許揭示餐飲業的本質——影視劇能製造一時的流星，但只有真正紮根味蕾的記憶，才能在潮起潮落後留下痕跡。

The Meteoric Rise and Fall of Korean Fried Chicken: From My Love from the Star to Market Retreat

In 2014, the Korean drama My Love from the Star swept across China like a whirlwind. One iconic line from the character Cheon Song-yi — “It’s snowing, how can we not have fried chicken and beer?” — instantly catapulted Korean fried chicken into stardom. Overnight, restaurants across cities scrambled to revise their menus. Scalpers began reselling Korean franchise goods, and fried chicken delivery workers were reportedly even busier than couriers. Yet a decade later, the once-ubiquitous Korean fried chicken shops have largely vanished, leaving only a few stubborn survivors on the culinary shoreline. This fleeting food craze, in truth, concealed the ruthless logic of consumer markets.

The Hollow Blaze of the “My Love from the Star” Effect

At the height of the drama’s popularity, Korean fried chicken became gilded with a romantic aura. Couples reenacted scenes of Do Min-joon and Cheon Song-yi munching chicken in the snow. Social media was flooded with “fried chicken and beer” snapshots. But this enthusiasm was essentially a derivative of entertainment IP — much like how Squid Game briefly popularized dalgona candy, only for mold kits to pile up unsold in Yiwu warehouses. Once the novelty of Korean dramas faded, the chicken reverted from “trendy must-have” to “ordinary fast food.”

Ironically, the stylish Korean fried chicken of the drama was drastically altered in its real-world Chinese versions: Sichuan restaurants added Sichuan peppercorns; Shanghai’s versions were slathered in sweet sauces. Even Koreans began asking, “Is this really our fried chicken?”

The Dimensional Collapse in the Category War

Korean fried chicken’s golden era coincided with the wave of capital influx into China’s food and beverage sector. After 2016, domestic fried chicken brands launched an aggressive siege using supply chain advantages and internet marketing. Brands like Zhengxin Chicken Steak opened 20,000 stores in three years with a “10 RMB for a huge piece” value strategy. Wallace Chicken penetrated lower-tier cities through a rural-to-urban franchise model.

In comparison, Korean fried chicken’s “double flavor with pickled radish” combo felt overpriced and underwhelming. When consumers realized the same money could buy two servings of local fried chicken, the so-called “authentic Korean” quickly lost its charm.

Even more lethal was the algorithmic strangulation of food delivery platforms. Data showed that Korean fried chicken takes, on average, 8 minutes longer to prepare than American-style (due to freshly mixed sauces), and its crispy texture often suffered in transit — leading to higher negative reviews. Naturally, platforms favored quicker, lower-cost local brands, creating a vicious cycle. A marketing director for a Korean chain once laughed bitterly, “We import our sauces by air from Korea, but all customers care about is whether their food’s hot within 30 minutes.”

Health Anxiety and the Algorithm of Trends

When My Love from the Star went viral, Chinese consumers were still celebrating their first $10,000 per capita GDP milestone. Today, over 300 million people use fitness apps. The rise of light salads and low-fat meals has cast high-calorie Korean fried chicken as a “guilty pleasure.” On Xiaohongshu (Little Red Book), young people now calculate: “One sweet-and-spicy Korean chicken wing = 45 minutes on a treadmill.” Such health anxiety is directly reshaping food choices.

At the same time, food trends have shifted toward more “Instagrammable” categories. Even Korea’s own cultural exports have evolved — from fried chicken to grilled beef intestines, marinated raw crab, and aesthetic cafés. On TikTok, “Korean Fried Chicken Challenge” views pale in comparison to “100 Ways to Eat Korean Ramen.” As new-generation consumers seek “dining + social currency,” Korean fried chicken has found itself caught in a twilight zone — less refined than Japanese yakitori, less camera-friendly than Thai milk tea.

The Lesson from the Survivors

The few Korean fried chicken shops that still survive have all undergone “de-K-drama-ification.” Some embrace Korean street culture themes; others have launched wild fusions like “Korean fried chicken with snail noodles.” One 10-year-old restaurant owner in Beijing’s Wudaokou said, “The customers brought in by My Love from the Star were gone in three months. The ones who stayed are people who just genuinely like my pickled radish.”

That remark may reveal the heart of the restaurant industry — TV dramas can create meteoric bursts of attention, but only flavors that take root in the taste buds can leave a lasting mark after the tide recedes.