Huh, They Have Hoegaarden in North Korea
Huh, They Have Hoegaarden in North Korea
Beer in Pyongyang
After my first afternoon in North Korea, happy hour had never sounded better.
I was there with a group of runners for the Mangyongdae Prize International Marathon. Since we landed, it had been a whirlwind of tension and adrenaline, beginning with an intimidating airport security check. Then, we were shown some carefully curated sights in the capital from the confines of a bus, overseen by government-vetted guides. First up: a whistle-stop propaganda circuit of Pyongyang. We also visited the city’s (larger) knock-off of France’s Arc De Triomphe—a monument to Korea’s resistance to Japan—and some captured U.S. military vehicles.
We were allowed to take photos, but only of monuments and war trophies, not of the North Koreans in dark clothing we saw from our bus, cycling or working the fields by hand. We also paid tribute to massive bronze statues of Kim Il-sung and Kim Jong-il, Great Leader and Dear Leader, grandfather and father, respectively, to current leader Kim Jong-un. Citizens are required to lay flowers at their feet; guests are encouraged to do so, and some of our group did.
We finally headed to a restaurant on the second floor of a nondescript building, above an empty bowling alley. A long table had been set with mysterious fried meats, rice topped with ketchup, and small golden piles of egg salad. There were no other patrons. We were offered beer, and eagerly accepted. It was served cold in chilled mugs, and tasted delicious: a rice lager, but rich, both in flavor and color. Our guide called it Golden Lanes Microbrew, and explained that it was local, brewed in the bowling alley underneath the restaurant. (Of course, local in this case means it’s owned by the state.)
The beer was the highlight of the meal, and we ordered a second round, learning that the word for “cheers” in North Korea is different to the one in South Korea: “Chook-bae!” instead of “Geonbae!”
After dinner, the manager offered to open the bowling alley downstairs. We never saw where they brewed the beer, but under a life-sized photograph of Kim Jong-il, we put on those universally clownish bowling shoes while our guides distributed warm cans of random import beer: Heineken, Hoegaarden, Beer Hanoi.
“Where’s that local draught, the microbrew?” I asked. But the guides didn’t answer. Instead, they encouraged us to choose an import. I settled for a Heineken.