South Korean youth turn to 'beggar map' amid rising living costs

South Korean youths have recently invented a brand-new way of eating: first, open the "Beggar Map" and filter nearby restaurants by price; if a meal costs more than 8,000 won (about 37 RMB) without meat or vegetables, it’s immediately deemed “not worthy of the list.”

The developer of this map, Choi Seong-soo, is 34 years old and lost his job due to the AI wave. While living on severance pay, he limited his daily food budget to 10,000 won. He then used AI programming tools to build a website specifically for finding affordable restaurants over a single weekend.

It’s AI that made him unemployed, and it’s AI that helps him figure out where he can eat cheaply after losing his job—delivering a fully闭环 service.

The website has been live for one month, attracting 1.31 million visits; the app, launched just six days ago, has surpassed 21,000 downloads. In South Korea, where per capita GDP exceeds $36,000 and global giants like Samsung and Hyundai are household names, “Where should I eat a 5,000-won meal today?” has become a shared question for millions.

The official name of the "Beggar Map" is Geoji Map. Instead of Michelin stars, the map features prominent price tags: 3,000 won for bibimbap, 3,900 won for pasta, and 4,000 won for fried pork cutlet.

Its rules are stricter than many food rankings. Initially, most regions used 8,000 KRW as the benchmark, while high-spending areas like Gangnam and Yeouido raised it to 10,000 KRW; restaurants exceeding the price limit or using only one cheap side dish to attract customers may be reported and removed by users.

Cheap isn’t enough—the food also has to look like food. The platform emphasizes that even the poorest need protein and dietary fiber. High-carb dishes like noodles typically don’t qualify if they exceed 7,000 won; however, a meaty seolleongtang at the same price might pass. The platform’s review rules embody a rigorously nutritional approach to poverty.

A pork cutlet shop in Seoul’s Sinchon has long held a popular spot by selling just one portion for 4,000 won. Some diners, worried a single piece won’t fill them up, order two—and end up so full they question life itself. Others warn newcomers that the water costs an extra 1,000 won, advising budget-savvy patrons to bring their own. The list also includes a 9,500-won all-you-can-eat fried chicken and beer buffet. Flavor, protein content, free side dishes, and how much fullness you get per 1,000 won are all part of the evaluation criteria. Food reviews here have become grassroots cost-efficiency engineering.

Restaurants are added, modified, and removed by users collectively. Some upload menus, others add operating hours, and some note “average hygiene.” Businesses that attract customers with low-priced dishes but charge high prices for other items are quickly reported by users. A group of highly vigilant wallet holders has formed the most difficult-to-deceive review committee on the internet.

In Seoul, a typical meal out easily costs 12,000 won, and finding anything under 8,000 won requires deliberate effort. Korean media have documented how a 22-year-old female university student uses a "beggar's map" daily to find cheaper alternatives than the campus cafeteria. For small restaurants, this map acts like a free billboard: without paying high commissions to food delivery platforms, they already have long lines outside their doors.

Before the "beggar map" appeared, South Korean youth had been practicing on the social app KakaoTalk for three years.

In 2023, a surge of open group chats known as "beggar rooms" became popular. Popular groups typically cap membership at 300 to 500 people, with dedicated "waiting beggar rooms" for those who miss out. Members report their daily expenses: spending 3,000 won on an iced Americano might prompt advice to drink from the office water dispenser; wanting to take a bus for a 5.3-kilometer journey could lead fellow members to encourage trusting one’s own legs; spending 40,000 won on a personal color analysis might result in the suggestion to “hold up colored papers next to your face and compare.”

Some group chats operate like companies, with comprehensive rules: for any expenditure over 30,000 won, members must fill out an “expense request form,” answering whether the item is necessary, how often it can be used per week, and whether it has more than two purposes, followed by obtaining signatures from three other group members. Using paid stickers may result in expulsion, as cute emojis are seen as encouraging spending; if you truly want to use them, you must draw them yourself. The member who spends the most each month must also write a 500-word reflection essay. According to Korean media, hundreds of similar group chats now exist on KakaoTalk.

This trend has a specific name: jjantech, commonly translated as "frugal finance," formed by combining "jjan," meaning frugality, with "jaetech," meaning finance. Young people research convenience store discounts, stack payment promotions, use gift cards to clear out their refrigerators, and earn points through step counts.

Twenty-four-year-old graduate student Jeong Eun-in walks whenever possible to save on transportation costs; twenty-five-year-old job seeker Lee Ji-min reduces visits to her parents to avoid spending around 100,000 won on KTX tickets to Gimhae; twenty-six-year-old Kim Se-rin walks at least 8,000 steps daily to redeem municipal app rewards for Seoul Pay, which she uses to buy food. Someone spent 3,100 won on green tea bags, and a group member immediately suggested an improvement: steep each bag two or three times.

The consumer market has also quickly adapted. GS25, one of South Korea’s largest convenience store chains, launched chilled boxed meals priced at 3,000 to 5,000 won and ready-to-eat soups at 1,500 won; sales of these items increased by 33.8% and 167.4% year-over-year in the first four months of 2026, respectively. Supermarkets have begun selling 1-kilogram portions of rice and single-serving meat portions. Relevant sales data show that younger consumers care more about how much they save today and whether their food will spoil before they finish eating it.

From hunting for a pork cutlet priced at 4,000 won to holding "consumer condemnation meetings" over a cup of iced Americano, it may seem like a lively game of saving money—but behind it lies the growing financial strain on Koreans' household budgets.

South Korea has already entered the ranks of developed nations with a per capita GDP exceeding $30,000, so why are its young people still scrimping on thousands of won?

The answer lies in another map composed of wages, employment, housing prices, and debt.

From a macroeconomic perspective, South Korea appears to be a country where "beggar lifestyle" should not be prevalent.

World Bank data shows that South Korea's nominal GDP in 2025 is approximately $1.87 trillion, with a per capita GDP of $36,227; the International Monetary Fund forecasts that per capita GDP will rise to approximately $37,410 by 2026. It is the fourth-largest economy in Asia, with mature industries in semiconductors, automobiles, shipbuilding, and chemicals. The World Bank's data on South Korea is more than sufficient to present any country profile with dignity.

The salary figures also look decent. The minimum hourly wage will increase to 10,320 Korean won (48 RMB) in 2026, equating to 2.157 million Korean won per month based on 209 hours. According to the Korean Ministry of Labor, the average nominal monthly wage for all workers in May was 3.982 million Korean won, approximately 19,000 RMB.

Please hide it beneath the average.

At the same time, South Korea’s labor force participation rate for youth aged 15 to 29 fell to 47.2%; the employment rate dropped to 43.8%, with a net reduction of 255,000 young employed individuals over the year; and the unemployment rate rose to 7.2%. When including those preparing for employment, those who have given up job searching, and those wishing to work more hours, the expanded unemployment rate reached 16.6%. According to the National Statistical Office’s youth survey, the youth labor force is shrinking faster than the overall population.

A college diploma is no longer a guaranteed key to employment. In the second quarter of 2026, 481,000 unemployed individuals in South Korea held at least a college degree, with 64.2% of them aged 20 to 39. Among young people aged 15 to 29 who have left school and are currently unemployed, 48.6%—approximately 605,000 people—have been jobless for over a year, while 19.4% have been unemployed for more than three years. A survey released in July also revealed that young people wait an average of 11.2 months to secure their first paid job.

The first job is also hard to stabilize. Monthly salaries most commonly range between 2 million and 3 million Korean won, with an average tenure of just 1 year and 6.8 months; among those who left their jobs, 44.4% cited wages, working hours, and other labor conditions as the primary reason. The Bank of Korea also found that among economically inactive individuals aged 20 to 34, the proportion of those listed as “on break” rose from 14.6% in 2019 to 22.3% in 2025, with 450,000 explicitly stating they do not wish to be employed. Many of these individuals have prior work experience, making it difficult to explain their situation simply as being “overly picky.”

This disconnect has given rise to a term in South Korea’s job market that sounds like a secondhand product: “junggo sinip,” or “used fresh graduate”—someone who has worked for a while but is now reapplying as a new graduate.

Even if it functions smoothly, a house in Seoul still feels like a commodity from another pricing system.

In July 2026, the average sale price of apartments in Seoul approached 1.595 billion KRW (7.46 million CNY). South Korea also has a unique "Jeonse" rental system: tenants pay a large lump-sum deposit instead of monthly rent, and the deposit is fully refunded by the landlord at the end of the lease term. Currently, the average Jeonse deposit for Seoul apartments has exceeded 700 million KRW.

For most young people just entering the workforce, 700 million won is unattainable. Based on the minimum wage in 2026, a person would need to work for approximately 27 years without spending a single penny to save up this deposit. In reality, many young people end up living in “gosiwon”—tiny rooms originally designed for exam candidates but which have since become housing for low-income individuals.

At the end of last year, a South Korean journalist visited a gosiwon in Jongno, Seoul. One room, set to be rented to a person in their twenties, measured just 2.85 square meters, with a bed measuring 1.9 meters long and 1.5 meters wide. When lying down, the person’s feet had to be tucked under the desk, and their head and feet still touched the walls.

Housing is out of reach, while debt is drawing closer. Per household debt for people in their 20s rose from 16.11 million KRW in 2013 to 30.47 million KRW in 2025; for those in their 30s, it increased from 53.74 million KRW to 102.18 million KRW. Combined, the two groups saw an 89.9% increase—nearly doubling over 12 years.

The final source of pressure comes from food, which you can't avoid every day.

In spring 2026, the retail price of 20 kilograms of rice remained above 60,000 Korean won (280 RMB) for eight consecutive months; in early May, the price of domestic pork belly reached approximately 2,811 Korean won per 100 grams, a 12.9% year-over-year increase. According to Korea’s media-adjusted Engel coefficient, which combines food and dining-out expenses, the figure reached 30.3% in 2025—the first time in 31 years that it has exceeded 30%. This data also means that for every 100 Korean won spent by Koreans, 30 won goes toward food.

South Korean media surveyed approximately 1,200 restaurants around Seoul’s three major business districts—Gwanghwamun, Yeouido, and Gangnam—finding that the average lunch price reached 14,635 KRW. Based on the minimum hourly wage for that year, a person would need to work about 1 hour and 25 minutes to afford a typical lunch.

Around 2015, South Korean youth began using “Hell Joseon”—a sarcastic term for “Hell Korea”—to mock intense job competition, social stratification, and sky-high housing prices. More than a decade later, despite per capita GDP rising another notch, “Hell Joseon” remains firmly entrenched in popular lexicon.

This is the gap between Korea's two sets of books.

The national ledger shows per capita GDP exceeding $36,000, a surge in AI chip exports, and upgraded economic growth forecasts; the young people’s ledger lists unemployment, high rent, heavy debt, and rising prices. The first ledger proves South Korea remains wealthy; the second determines whether young people dare to spend today.

When even a regular lunch costs more than an hour’s wages, saving a few thousand won becomes practically meaningful. A decade ago, Korean youth under pressure would swipe their cards to buy bags and chant “live for the moment”; today, they begin walking five kilometers just to save on transportation costs. The way wallets are used has changed, and so has their outlook on the future.

Korean society once held a very strong belief in the future.

From the 1960s to the 1990s, the "Miracle on the Han River" transformed a postwar impoverished agrarian nation into an industrial powerhouse. South Korea’s annual GDP growth averaged 8.5% in the 1960s, 7.7% in the 1970s, and reached 9.1% again in the 1980s. Factory expansion, export growth, and urbanization occurred simultaneously, as many families witnessed refrigerators, cars, and apartments become standard fixtures of middle-class life.

This experience left Korea with a simple intergenerational contract: study hard, get a job at a large corporation, work long-term, earn raises with seniority, and eventually own a home. The previous generation saved because they believed enduring a few years would lead to a more prosperous future.

By the 2010s, this social contract had weakened. Economic growth slowed, Seoul housing prices rose, and large corporations raised their hiring standards, prompting young people to begin identifying as the "three-drop generation" or "five-drop generation," sequentially giving up on romance, marriage, childbearing, homebuying, and social relationships.

At that time, the lingering warmth of the generation of growth from our parents' era still persisted, while consumption and social media offered instant gratification. YOLO ("You Only Live Once") thus gained strong appeal.

The Korean version of YOLO actually encompasses two mindsets. One group still believes their future income will rise and is willing to spend ahead of time; the other has lost faith that saving can buy a home or elevate social status, so they trade distant, grand goals for a trip, a fine meal, or a designer bag. The logic behind the latter is nearly pessimistic: if saving for a down payment feels like trying to fill the ocean with a spoon, at least today they can afford something decent.

But this approach, which defers consumption to a distant future, carries an implicit assumption: you might not be able to afford a house, but your salary for next month must still arrive on time!

Entering the 2020s, a series of challenges—including the pandemic, high inflation, elevated interest rates, shrinking job opportunities, and anxiety over AI replacement—have become the new normal, gradually shaping the psychological foundation of South Korean youth. Sustaining high levels of consumption has become increasingly difficult, and YOLO has given way to YONO—You Only Need One.

YONO emphasizes cutting unnecessary expenses and only paying for things that are truly needed and will be used long-term. Many young people reduce spending on weekday coffee, dining out, and transportation, yet still treat themselves to a trip or an item they genuinely love. Their desire to consume hasn’t disappeared—it’s simply been focused on a few key priorities.

Today, the beggar's map pushes YONO to an even more extreme version: even a single meal must undergo triple calculations of price, nutrition, and satiety.

From YOLO to YONO, then to “beggar’s room” and “beggar’s map,” South Korean youth slogans may seem to shift wildly, but their core demand remains unchanged: reclaiming a measure of control over an increasingly unpredictable life path.

Live in the moment by using spending to prove “today is mine”; save relentlessly to use your balance as proof that “tomorrow still has a safety net.”

YOLO and YONO appear to point in opposite directions, but they both address the same fundamental challenge: how to plan for today when long-term plans become increasingly difficult. Some convert their money into immediate experiences, while others keep it in their accounts to preserve flexibility. Consumption patterns have changed, but the need for certainty has never disappeared.

The beggar’s lifestyle is the solution rediscovered by millions of South Koreans: breaking down overwhelming economic uncertainty into daily budgets for a meal, a bus ride, and a single day. A 4,000-won pork cutlet, points earned from 8,000 steps, a tea bag steeped for the third time—these small things make life tangible again. The future remains unpredictable, but at least today’s choices are theirs to make.

This article is from the WeChat official account "Cool Play Lab," authored by Cool Play Lab.