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From mass-market to artisanal: These makers are reclaiming the soul of Korean soju
For decades, soju has been known as Korea's cheapest drink; ubiquitous, industrial and almost invisible in its character. Walk down any street in Seoul and you'll find it: rows of bright green bottles stacked in restaurant fridges, recycled in alley bins, or clinking in baskets under metal tables.
At just under S$2 (US$1.55) per bottle (an average 360ml bottle at a major supermarket costs about 1,400 won or S$1.30), soju represents one of the most consumed spirits in the world. Jinro Soju has topped Drinks International's annual list of best-selling global spirits for years, notching up sales of 65 million 9-litre cases in the 2013 list.
Soju, Korea's national drink, is everywhere, and yet, in the ways that matter, it is often unseen. For most, soju is a social lubricant, a symbol of release – not a beverage that is typically savoured. It's functional and affordable, taken in shots rather than sips.
The clear drink is often miscategorised – not quite a wine nor spirit, as its cheapness has come to define it. But historically, soju was seasonal and ceremonial, brewed slowly with three ingredients – rice, water and nuruk (traditional Korean fermentation starter) – and aged with intention, and rooted in place.
So, behind the fluorescent hum of the convenience store lies a quieter story, one that predates mass production and marketing budgets. In kitchens, cellars and purpose-built distilleries, a handful of makers are returning to soju's origins. Not by rebranding it for a luxury audience or mimicking Western spirits, but by refusing to let its true form die out.
Among them are two very different producers – Sulsaem, a modern distillery committed to reviving traditional methods, and Samhae Soju, the sole inheritor of a spirit once revered in the Joseon Dynasty. Their paths are distinct – one born from contemporary rediscovery, the other from legacy – but their philosophies are surprisingly aligned. In a market driven by speed, scale and sameness, both brands have chosen to anchor their work in memory, method and meaning.
THE RETURN TO INTENTION
The soju that most people know today is not just the result of technological progress – it's a product of war, policy and cultural adaptation. In the aftermath of the Korean War, South Korea faced devastating food shortages. To protect rice supplies, the government banned the use of rice in alcohol production from 1965 to 1999. In its place, the manufacturers turned to imported starches like tapioca or sweet potatoes, which were fermented into high-proof ethanol and then diluted with water to create what is now known as diluted soju. This new form of soju was designed for mass consumption.
By the 1970s, as Korea began its rapid industrialisation, soju became the drink of the salaryman, the factory worker, the exhausted patriarch returning home after 14-hour shifts. It was consumed at pochangmachas (outdoor street food stalls) and barbecue joints, always in a hurry, always in rounds. Rather than a celebration of craft or terroir, soju became synonymous with a ritual of stress release, a coping mechanism embedded in the rhythm of modern South Korean life.
By the time the rice ban was lifted in 1999, diluted soju had already become entrenched as the default. The spirit's identity had shifted entirely – from artisanal to anonymous, from mindful to mechanical. The result? A national palate shaped by efficiency, trained to forget that soju, too, once carried the complexity of place and time. 'We grew up thinking that's what soju is,' said Shin Ji-yeon, general manager at Sulsaem.'But it's not. There's so much more behind Korean alcohol.'
Instead of viewing soju as a product to modernise, Sulsaem saw it as something to protect. Their process begins with 100 per cent Korean rice, traditional nuruk and slow fermentation, before double-distilling the resulting cheongju and ageing it in onggi (porous clay jars used in Korean fermentation for centuries).
'We aim to create well-crafted soju using traditional methods and Korean ingredients,' Shin said. Unlike industrial soju, which prioritises speed and scale, their goal is to highlight the depth and character of the original spirit, and to restore soju's integrity.
Where Sulsaem is building something new from old foundations, Samhae Soju is continuing something that never fully disappeared. At its helm is Kim Hyun-jong, a quiet and charismatic brewer who didn't set out to become the steward of Seoul's historic spirit – he simply didn't walk away from it. 'I came across the original master by chance,' Kim told me in his small tasting room in Seoul. 'He was a designated intangible cultural heritage holder in Seoul, a sojujang. He taught me the way of Samhaeju – and when he passed, I carried it on.'
Samhaeju, the aged rice wine from which Samhae Soju is distilled, dates back to the Joseon Dynasty. Its name – literally 'three hae' – refers to its unique brewing schedule: fermentation begins on the first hae-il (pig day in the lunar zodiac), with two subsequent batches added on later hae days, spaced 12 to 36 days apart. This triple-fermentation method, known as samyangju, yields a complex yakju that is then aged at low temperatures before being distilled into a clean, high-proof soju with a soft, round mouthfeel and lingering finish.
The process takes months and the yields are low. The ingredients – Korean rice, aged nuruk, and well water – are carefully selected. 'What we are doing is extracting the essence of a refined rice wine,' Kim said. Kim is one of the only known distillers still producing Samhae Soju in accordance with the original lunar brewing calendar. 'I didn't revive this – I've simply continued what my teacher passed on,' he explained.
FERMENTATION AS PHILOSOPHY
Despite their different settings, both Sulsaem and Samhae share a common scepticism of modern fermentation. Kim is particularly pointed: 'Industrial alcohol uses one strain of yeast. But Korean nuruk is different. It contains hundreds of microbial strains, and each one has a different role in fermentation, depending on temperature, humidity, and how the nuruk is made. It's something you can't replicate in an industrial setting. It's like bread these days – it just rises but doesn't really ferment.'
Kim continued: 'Modern soju looks right, but it lacks the depth that comes from proper fermentation.'
At Sulsaem, this fermentation manifests in a meticulous attention to ingredient sourcing. Only Korean rice is used. No flavourings, no shortcuts. 'Even the water matters,' Shin said. 'We think about how every element – rice, nuruk, water – shapes the soju's character.'
Both distilleries face the same question: If traditionally distilled soju is so much better, why don't more people drink it? The answer is, of course, economics.
Commercial soju is cheap because it is made quickly and at scale, often using imported starches, industrial ethanol, and additives. A bottle of green-label soju might retail for less than S$2. Traditional soju, by contrast, takes months to produce, uses only domestic ingredients, and is often made by hand. A single bottle might cost anywhere from S$12 to S$70 or more. Even among curious drinkers, few know how to appreciate the layers these distillers work so hard to preserve, much less pay for them.
Kim is direct about the challenge. Traditional soju, he explained, is made with domestic Korean rice and aged through a long fermentation and distillation process – all of which drives up the cost. In contrast, commercial soju is made from imported starches or ethanol and produced at scale.
'It's hard to compare the value,' he said. While many consumers baulk at the higher price of traditional bottles, Kim believes it reflects the ingredients, time, and care that go into each batch. Still, he acknowledges that for those accustomed to neutral, diluted soju, traditional styles can be a shock to the palate, often described as too unfamiliar or too strong.
Shin echoes the same sentiments. 'The most difficult thing is the public perception that soju should be cheap, and that most consumers don't understand the difference between diluted and distilled soju.'
Will traditionally distilled soju ever replace its commercial cousin? Unlikely. But that's not the point. What matters is that it continues to exist – and that people know the difference. The hope, shared by both Kim and Shin, is modest but clear – that soju, like sake or Scotch, can one day be tasted with intention, discussed with nuance, and valued not for how fast it disappears, but for how long it lingers.
