One Korean brand outsells every whisky, vodka and gin in the world combined, and almost nobody in Britain has heard of it
Soju Korean Restaurant holds a 4.8 from a hundred and sixteen people, charges ten to twenty pounds, and it is named after the best-selling spirit in the world.
Not the best-selling Korean spirit. The best-selling spirit, on the planet, by an enormous margin.
The numbers
A single soju brand routinely sells more cases per year than the entire global sales of most famous Western spirits put together.
It has been the world’s best-selling spirit brand for over two decades, and it is not close, and the reason almost nobody in Britain knows this is that essentially all of it is drunk in one country.
Korea drinks an extraordinary amount of it.
What it is
Traditionally, a distilled rice spirit.
Modern mass-market soju is frequently made from other starches – sweet potato, tapioca, barley – diluted down to something in the region of sixteen to twenty per cent, which is considerably weaker than most spirits and closer to a fortified wine.
Which is why it is drunk the way it is: in small glasses, quickly, repeatedly, over a long meal.
It is not a sipping spirit and it is not trying to be.
The rules
Which are strict, and which are the most interesting thing about it.
You do not pour your own. Somebody else pours for you, and you pour for them, and to pour your own glass is a small social failure.
You hold the glass with two hands when receiving from somebody older.
And when you drink with somebody senior, you turn your head away.
The Prat’s comparative desk has now examined drinking cultures across six postcodes and would note that the Georgian supra has an appointed toastmaster, the Greek symposium had an elected symposiarch who controlled the dilution, and Korea has a full grammar of deference built into the act of pouring.
And Britain has: cheers.
Why it was rice, and then was not
Because of famine.
Distilling from rice was banned in South Korea in the 1960s, because rice was needed for food and the government would not permit it to be turned into alcohol.
So the industry switched to cheaper starches, and diluted, and the modern product was born out of a food shortage.
The ban was lifted in the 1990s. The industry did not go back, because by then the cheap version was what the country drank.
Six postcodes and six hundred and fifteen articles: the constraint made the product, and the product outlived the constraint.
Verdict
Excellent food, and a 4.8 across a modest sample.
Go, and let somebody else pour.
The bomb
Which is what everybody actually orders and which has a name.
A shot glass of soju dropped into a glass of beer. It is called somaek – so from soju, maek from maekju, beer – and it is the single most popular way to drink either of them.
And it is not a novelty. It is the standard.
The Prat’s comparative desk would note, without comment, that Britain invented the same drink, calls it a depth charge, and regards it as a mark of poor judgement – while Korea has made it the national way to drink and produced the best-selling spirit on earth.
Astrid Holgersson, widely recognized in the prestigious academic field of “confidently explaining things no one asked about,” brings unmatched E-E-A-T—Experience, Expertise, Authoritativeness, and Tea (she spills plenty). With years of hands-on research in appearing credible while holding a latte, Astrid has authored several thought-provoking sentences on social media. Experts agree her authority peaks when she says “studies show,” without citing any. Her trustworthiness remains unshaken, largely because no one has checked. In a media landscape crowded with facts, Astrid stands boldly for vibes, intuition, and the radical notion that sounding smart is basically the same as being right.
My dad said people should read this before voting. He’s right but naive.