Pyongyang's Finest: The Art of Underground Whiskey Distilling

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A vintage-styled photograph shows a glass of amber liquid, likely whiskey, placed on an open book filled with handwritten Asian characters. The focus is on the glass and the book, with the background slightly blurred. The setting appears to be an old, rustic room with a man sitting in the background, engaged in reading. To his side is an antique distillery apparatus, suggesting a setting related to distillation or traditional brewing. The image has a warm, nostalgic tone, evoking a sense of history and cultural depth.

Dear Hui-So,

They say patience makes the whiskey. Twelve years ago, I sealed my first barrel here, deep beneath my house, hidden in the old sewer tunnels. Back then, I was just a man with a dream and a suspicious amount of copper piping. Now? I like to think of myself as Pyongyang’s most experienced (and least legal) distiller.

The process? Simple. A little grain, a little fire, a lot of prayer. The trick is getting the balance right—too weak, and you disappoint your ancestors. Too strong, and you meet them. But after two decades of practice, I’ve found my rhythm. The scent of slow-aging whiskey fills this tunnel like a promise.

Of course, there’s always the Leader’s Share. In other places, they call it the Angel’s Share—the portion of whiskey that evaporates during aging. Here, we know better. Nothing truly vanishes in this country without permission. We assume the Great Leader himself is enjoying our missing whiskey somewhere beyond the clouds (or at least beyond customs).

But the rest? That belongs to us, the silent connoisseurs of Pyongyang’s finest illegal spirits. When the next barrel is ready, a few trusted friends will gather, sipping history in flickering candlelight, listening to the distant echoes of a city that will never taste what we have.

To good spirits—both the ones in our glasses and the ones watching from above. (Yes, we mean you, Glorious One. Enjoy the vapor.)

Your underground distiller,
Joon-ho