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The only things I know about the Democratic Peopleís Republic of North Korea have been ingrained in me by the singing, foul-mouthed puppets from Team America. That and they have never won the World Cup. Drawing them for the World Cup Beer Sweepstake was going to be a challengeÖ

The first thing to do is obvious: google ĎNorth Korean beerí. All the results point to one beer: Taedonggang. The beer has an interesting background. In 2000, Kim Jong-il decided that his nation needed a brewery. He seems to be the type of guy who gets what he wants and hearing that Ushers in Trowbridge no longer needed their brewing kit he offered to buy it from them. Cue panic that the leader was planning mash tun bombs and FV missiles. Eventually, via a German broker and £1.5million later, a team from North Korea came to Trowbridge and dismantled the plant, shipping it home and setting it up. In 2002, 18 months later, they were brewing beer.

The beer is around 50p a bottle but in a country which has suffered, and is still suffering, severe famine, itís an expensive luxury aimed at the highest end of the market. This was reinforced in 2009 when the brewery launched a TV commercial Ė a rare move in a communist country. This one is two-and-a-half minutes long and has been shown three times in total on North Korean TV, spreading the brightly-coloured message that Taedonggang relieves stress, improves health and encourages longevity. Sounds good (or at least interesting) Ė but how could I find it?

North Korea isnít famous for its exports (nuclear weapons aside), so that immediately made things harder. The backup plan of an Ushers beer was as non-existent as the extinct brewery Ė it was, therefore, more likely that Iíd actually get Taedonggang than Ushers. I emailed a North Korean importer. They didnít reply. I called a few Korean restaurants in London and they had no idea what I was asking for (how does one pronounce Taedonggang for it to be understandable by a Korean?). I asked people on RateBeer. I checked flights but none go direct and itís complicated and expensive (and not a realistic option, letís be honest). I even asked if anyone knew of any North Korean homebrewers. The tone of my search was exemplified by this response to an email I sent a guy who runs a website for Koreans in England: ďThere are some North Koreans in the Kingston/New Malden area but I've never met any.Ē Heís never met any?!

But in this is a big clue.

New Malden is the most densely populated area for Koreans outside of Korea with many restaurants, markets and the main warehouse for (South) Korean imports to the UK. If I was going to find Taedonggang anywhere, it would be in New Malden, surely?

On the train I prepare myself for Korea Town, like China Town in Soho but a bit different. The station itself is unremarkable but as itís in Zone 4 I figure they canít be too outrageous with signage. Immediately looking around I see few non-Caucasians. Itís fine, they are tourists like me, I think to myself as I pass through the ticket barrier. The first important Korean sign comes as I turn to leave the station - a wind of sweet and deeply savoury food, like dumplings in a thick sauce, fills my lungs. Passing this I hit the main street: not much to the right, signs of a town to the left. Iím taking small steps, trying to take it all in, anticipating an explosion of culture. Immediately opposite thereís something Iím not expecting: Tesco. Curiously I cross the street and check it out; I expect a parallel version of the normal filled with Korean products. I walk around, I look at the food, I check to see what newspapers they have and then I check the beer aisle: nothing to suggest Iím anywhere other than a template Tesco. Itís disappointing. Back outside I look back across the road and see Bar Malden, a wannabee wine bar, a little further down thereís a Waitrose, looking up thereís ugly block buildings. Itís at this point I realise that New Malden is not Korea Town, it is, in fact, just a London Suburb.

But Iím neither disheartened not put off and Iím on a beer mission. Passing more familiar shops I finally spot what I was hoping for: a Korean flag hanging outside a Korean shop. Inside was a brave new world for me: colour, cryptic fonts on unusual products, aisles of food. I spot the fridge straight away and calmly dash towards it. They have beer but itís only Hite, the South Korean brew. I scrutinise everything, looking closely. I pull out every drink in the fridge, turning it to try and spot signs of its Northern origins, but itís impossible. I give up with the fridge but carry on looking around, fascinated, wishing I knew what everything was. Thereís sweet stuff, savoury stuff, fresh fruit and vegetables, a fridge filled with plastic pots of tofu and kimchi, an aisle of snacks, an aisle of cans and cleaning products. And all of it is Korean. South Korean.

I also notice something else: Iíve developed a Korean shadow. A shady looking chap Ė short, eyes lowered, old baseball cap, bad trainers Ė is following me around or standing in front of me. In the space of three minutes Iíve apologised five times for passing in front of him or behind. He hasnít picked anything up to buy, heís just staring at me and following me. I decide to leave.

Opposite, just up from a Greggs, is another Korean store, this one is like a market. They have a meat counter, fresh foods, freezers, aisles of snacks and food and a fridge filled with everything Ė literally Ė except Taedonggang. Back outside I walk the length of the high street, passing a couple of Korean restaurants. Hungry for at least some cultural experience, I turn back and go into Hamgipak, a restaurant Iíd read good things about online.

Itís tiny inside, five or six tables, like benches, squashed in. I sit at a table for two, beside me a group of well spoken English people sit eating mountains of BBQ and dumplings which look and smell amazing. Iím given a menu and despite the English translations I have literally no idea what anything is. I go for C1 because it seems to tick a number of familiar boxes: pork, kimchi, ground bean curd. When I ask for this the waitress stops and looks up from her pad.

ďHave you had this before?Ē she asks in good, accented English.

ďNo.Ē I say. ďWhyís that?Ē

ďItís just not everybody like it.Ē Iím a little lost for words. Itís pork, kimchi and bean curd, what could be so strange about it?

ďWhat is it?Ē

ďItís a thick casserole with pork. Not everybody like it.Ē She repeats before staring up at me with a caring mother look. But now my interest is piqued Ė I have to order it.

ďItís fine, Iíll go with that.Ē She disappears back into the busy kitchen which is being run by little, old Korean women in bright white Nike trainers.

I wait at my table wondering what the hell Iíve ordered, thinking that maybe I shouldíve gone for something from the BBQ, maybe shouldíve gone for something that doesnít come with a warning. I decide that anything that comes with a warning from the restaurant you order it from is a good thing.

When it arrives I wish I hadnít ordered it. Iím expecting a deep brown casserole in a thick savoury sauce but Iím handed a molten black pot, literally boiling in front of me, which looks like a blitzed up brain that has curdled under the heat. A heaviness sets itself in my stomach. I start on the four pots of side dishes: kimchi, a seaweedy-thing, some beansprouts and a cold potato dish. They are all great (familiar, at least) but they are all only filling inevitable time before I eat the still-bubbling pink, lumpy mush. Before I do so I look around again and see all the delicious looking BBQ and the other bowls of great looking food on the table next to me and then I look back at mine and can feel sweat bursting through my brow (the heat from this bowl could melt an igloo in seconds).

I stir it and it doesnít get more appetising. I take some sticky rice and pinch some pork between the ends of the metal chopsticks. It doesnít smell of much. I place it in my mouth and hope for the best. Itís hot, itís deeply savoury, itís comfortingly soft in the mouth andÖ itís actually okay. Not really describable in terms of flavour, though. Soon enough Iím halfway through the monster-sized portion. Itís a hard thing to love being so hot, oddly textured and non-descript, but I donít hate it. I finish it all, almost as a sign of defiance, and exhale deeply. Iím sweating heavier now, hot to the core with this Korean stodge. I pay (£8.50 for the food and a green tea Ė itís a BYO policy which I wish Iíd known before as Iíd have taken a beer) and leave. The breeze outside hits me and sends a chill through to my core. Korean food, at least on this display, can best be described as Ďintenseí. But if I ever find myself in New Malden again Iíd definitely go back for more, I just wonít order whatever C1 is.

Waddling heavily now I need to at least attempt to complete my Taedonggang search. I go back into the first shop and walk up and down for ages, desperately hoping for something to jump out at me but it doesnít. I take a can of Hite from the fridge along with something entirely unknown (it has no English on it at all except for a tiny-fonted website), I also grab a couple of bags of crisps, including one which is banana-flavoured (I couldnít resist).

As Iím paying my heart starts thumping: I have to ask them for Taedonggang. I have no idea if mentioning North Korea is big taboo. Just as I hand over the cash I ask: ďDo you have Taedonggang?Ē They stare back blankly. ďNorth Korean beer.Ē I say. Two staff look at each other and say something I donít understand then look at me again. ďNorth Korean beer Ė Taedonggang?Ē I repeat as if itís going to help. ďBeer from North Korea,Ē I rephrase.

ďNo.Ē He says. ďNo North Korea.Ē On that I leave, surrounded by a group of staring Korean people.

I grab a bag of Maltesers from the station to eat on the train, mainly with the aim of getting the lingering taste of C1 from my mouth. Mission Taedonggang failed. New Malden was the slimmest of hopes I held but it was unsuccessful. My only hope is that someone has brought a bottle back and itís hidden in their garage somewhere. Iím not giving up just yet though, and thereís still time, but itís not looking promising. To make it even worse, North Korea are out of the World Cup, although with a policy of only reporting good news in their media, Iím not sure how theyíll let everyone back home know. Maybe they could offer everyone a Taedonggang to soften the blow?


I have now drunk the two cans I brought from the Korean shop. Hite is a generic, pale lager, lacking everything usually associated with flavour, but there is a sense that itíd work wonderfully with fried foods. Just a sense though.

The other can was a different beast. I had absolutely no idea what it was as I poured it out. I certainly didnít get what I expected... Thereís a smoothie company called Love Juice. I immaturely laugh whenever I see their shops. This one could legitimately be called Love Juice. It poured a milky off-white, thick and to cries of Ďewwí and Ďoh my god, what is this?í It smells like milk stout, which is good, but it tastes like spoilt milk and booze, which is not good. Thereís a tang to it, a wine quality, but itís creamy and slightly rough-textured. Further investigations show that this is a rice wine. But itís not very nice wine.