In an online forum catering to self-employed individuals, a business owner recently bared their struggles with the waning popularity of Tanghulu, a once-hot trend in Korea. Expressing dismay, the poster remarked, "The trend for Tanghulu is now ending. I learned how to make mochi for no reason."
Reflecting on their entrepreneurial journey, the poster recounted the glory days of their Tanghulu store, which flourished after its inception in June of the previous year. However, with a mere nine months passing, the winds of change swept away the trend's allure. Determined to adapt, the owner sought refuge in another confection, strawberry mochi desserts, only to find them out of sync with contemporary tastes.
Regretfully, the poster admitted to investing in Tanghulu-making skills, only to find themselves among a throng of competitors, none faring any better. Disheartened by dismal sales, the owner lamented, "I was a fool to have paid money to learn how to make (Tanghulu)."
As the financial strain mounted, exacerbated by soaring fruit prices, the Tanghulu store stood as a symbol of dashed hopes. Despite efforts to offload the business, prospective buyers remained elusive, leaving the proprietor grappling with mounting rent and dwindling prospects.
The post elicited a chorus of sympathy and commiseration from netizens, with anecdotes of failed Tanghulu ventures and reflections on fleeting trends punctuating the thread. One commenter ruefully remarked on the sorry state of a neighboring Tanghulu establishment, likening it to a magnet for flies.
Amidst the lamentations, suggestions surfaced, hinting at alternative culinary pursuits and cautionary tales drawn from past fads. As the discourse unfolded, it became evident that the rise and fall of Tanghulu mirrored a broader narrative of entrepreneurial ambition, tempered by the capricious whims of consumer taste.