Since opening in February at the former BBQ King site, the line has hardly let up at Jiho Hanbang Samgyetang, which is known for its restorative ginseng and chicken soup.
14/20
Korean$
In Sydney’s Chinatown, every generational shift, every lease ending is a chance for something new to flourish. Nail a concept, and queues are all but inevitable, whether it’s for kakigori, noodles, roti canai or samgyetang, Korea’s restorative ginseng and chicken soup.
It’s this last dish that’s been responsible for the clamour on Liverpool Street since February, when Jiho Hanbang Samgyetang, which operates 95 sites across Korea, opened its first international outpost.
Samgyetang is traditionally a summer thing, eaten to counteract the effects of heat and humidity, but even as winter has begun to bite, the line at Jiho – which has 180 seats spread over three levels – has hardly let up.
This shouldn’t be a surprise. Chicken soup is universal, a panacea for all ills, ailments and appetites, while Sydney is the centre of Australia’s Korean culture: around half the country’s Korean diaspora live in NSW, and the city boasts three suburbs – Strathfield, Eastwood, Lidcombe – with legitimate claims on the title of Koreatown.
What is surprising is that with the proliferation of Korean restaurants, samgyetang is still often buried on the menus of generalists. At Jiho, it’s on every table, bubbling away.
The menu, accessed by QR code, lists eight variations, but the fundamentals are the same: a whole young chicken, stuffed with glutinous rice, ginseng and medicinal ingredients ranging from jujubes to deer antler, is simmered in an earthenware bowl, then served half-sunken in the steaming broth.
The rice cooks as the chicken poaches, the starch thickening the liquor, the bitter ginseng and fragrant herbs leaching out flavour. Pour in a cup of Jiho’s insam-ju, the ginseng liquor, and things get sweet and serious.
In Korea, where the dish dates back at least 1000 years, small chickens are bred specifically for samgyetang. Here, chef Amy Kim and husband John, the master franchisers for Australia, have tapped Game Farm to supply them with the same spatchcocks they ship to Ester and Berowra Waters Inn.
In Kim’s hands, the skin is gelatinous, the meat pull-apart tender. It’s a one-bowl-per-person setup, with sesame-flecked salt on standby alongside a tin for bones. Order the “beauty samgyetang”, pitched at women, and goji berries and licorice are in the mix; order the black garlic and the menu cites fatigue recovery and anti-cancer effects among the benefits. Health claims aside, the savoury depth and tint provided by the black garlic is a step up.
If you’ve walked through Seoul’s Gyeongdong Market, flush with Korean ginseng and lustrous red dates, the medicinal scent will be familiar. And although here you won’t get a black-skinned silkie chicken stuffed with a whole ginseng root in your soup like you can at Tosokchon near Seoul’s royal palace, Jiho does a fine job of balancing generosity with affordability.
And this is just part of the picture. Line up and the glow of the rotisserie might catch your eye. In the boxed-in front kitchen led by Naeun Lee, chefs will snip brined, golden spatchcocks open, splaying them over crisp-edged discs of nurungji, one of the world’s great takes on scorched rice. These birds are ferried to sizzling hot-plates and served with your choice of sauce. Soy-garlic is the staff pick, but go “bulduk” spicy and the heat is real, with only a cap of melted cheese and bites of crispy rice for relief.
This site also housed the final form of BBQ King, so seeing the kitchen that once roasted Chinatown’s most famous ducks pumping out poultry again feels right. A 1970s street food predating the country’s fried-chicken obsession, Korean charcoal chook has a limited presence in Sydney – Sutbul in Lidcombe, near the magnificently named nail salon Nail Me Now, is one of the only others doing it. I’d love to see more rice-stuffed roasted spatchcocks splayed and grilled until the grains crisp, but for now, Jiho is the go.
More soup? The dakdoritang, a signature featuring aged kimchi, is pure comfort, packed with potatoes, carrots and chicken tinted red from a gochujang marinade. Served on a gas burner, the sauce reduces to a peppery glaze, the acid in the kimchi keeping it fresh. (Add a plate of fresh geotjeori kimchi, made every three hours, for a crunch-filled comparison.) Equally wholesome is the juk, Korea’s famed rice porridge, here flavoured with ginseng and packed with the shredded meat of a whole spatchcock.
Apart from the framed A1 shots of signature dishes, there’s no charm to the fit-out: the lighting is harsh, and if you sit in the basement you might ride the lift looking for the bathroom, end up on the street by accident, only to find the hand-dryer in the upstairs bathroom doesn’t work. Waiters might forget ladles for shared dishes.
Does it matter? Probably not. This is a chain, after all, with eyes on more outposts in Sydney and Melbourne, and the focus is on the food. And while it’s not the city’s most personal Korean cooking, the balance between doing things the slow way and doing them at scale is impressive. A wave of samgyetang? It’s coming this summer.
The low-down
Atmosphere: A step away from quick service, with muzak on the speakers, drawers in the tables for chopsticks, and friends and families piling in
Go-to dishes: Healthy samgyetang ($33); original crispy rice chicken ($42); spicy ginseng chicken juk ($34); aged kimchi dakdoritang ($63 for two people)
Drinks: House and premium ginseng liquor, plus entry-level soju, makgeolli, Cass and Kloud lager
Cost: About $80 for two, excluding drinks
Good Food reviews are booked anonymously and paid independently. A restaurant can’t pay for a review or inclusion in the Good Food Guide.
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David Matthews is a food writer and editor, and co-editor of The Sydney Morning Herald Good Food Guide 2025.
