It’s a cloudy afternoon when Marc and I pull into the Exhibition Grounds. The air smells of sizzling meat and sesame oil drifting across the lot, and the sky hangs low enough to blur the tops of the barns. We get there just before 2 p.m., in time to snag an order of jeyuk before it sells out. Marc goes for the dakgalbi.

Shed No. 2 is where the action is, home to a small place called Korean Kitchen. It’s easy to miss unless you know what you’re looking for—an old shed that’s been transformed into a kitchen. Inside, it’s tight quarters—two burners, a counter, a small fridge, and Sunhi herself, smiling through the steam as she works the grill. The pork sizzles as she moves quickly, tossing it with noodles and vegetables, the air thick with sesame and gochujang.

We talk as she cooks. Originally from Seoul, she’s been in Fredericton since 2007. She started out on the north side market circuit before moving to this spot during COVID. Ten years now between both sides of the river, building a steady following. “It’s a small city so most of the people are connected,” she says. “Most of the customers are regular customers.” She tells us she keeps the prices low—everything under fifteen dollars—and the menu tight because space is limited. Three days a week, open year-round, even in winter. Cash or e-transfer only.

When our food’s ready, we take it outside to one of the picnic tables scattered around the lot. Cars hum by on Smythe Street. The city and the exhibition board are still fighting over what to do with the grandstand—whether to tear it down or preserve it—but out here, that noise feels far away. Sunhi’s food is its own quiet argument for what’s worth keeping.

The jeyuk is bright and balanced. The pork is tender, the vegetables still crisp, the heat from the sauce deep rather than sharp. She’s given me half rice, half japchae noodles, a combination that works beautifully—the chew of glass noodles soaking up the gochujang while the rice keeps everything grounded. There’s spinach, broccoli, bell pepper, and just enough sesame seed to make it pop. I find myself slowing down near the end, not because I’m full but because I don’t want to be finished. Marc’s dakgalbi is just as good, all smoky chicken and tangy spice. He taps his fork on the plate and says, simply, “10 out of 10,” before packing half of it up to take home.

There’s a constant buzz around the shed—people coming and going, ordering takeout, eating at the tables or in their cars. We chat with Sunhi while she prepares food, her hands moving quickly as she talks about her life here. She likes Fredericton. “It used to be really quiet,” she says. “Now it’s getting busier but it’s still a good place for raising kids.” Her husband is still in Korea, and her grown kids are in Toronto. She hopes to move closer to them one day, but for now she’s here, running this little kitchen that’s become part of the city’s weekend rhythm.

We finish our meal as a breeze rolls through, stirring the napkins on the table. The lot feels strangely peaceful—just the clatter of utensils from another picnic table, the hum of a generator, the faint aroma of gochujang in the air. Around us, debate continues about the future of this place: the grandstand, the barns, the land itself. But Sunhi isn’t part of that argument. She’s just here, cooking with care, connecting people through food the way she’s always done.

So go now, while you can. Bring cash, bring a friend, and eat under the open sky surrounded by traffic and horses and politics. Shed No. 2 might not look like much, but inside, it holds a decade of quiet dedication and some of the best Korean food you’ll find anywhere in the city. We’re lucky to have it—for now.