Illa Kim writes Illa Kim DipWSET is a Korean-born, German-raised restaurateur who now calls Sydney home. She’s the co-owner of SOUL Dining, a contemporary Korean restaurant known for bold flavours and even bolder wine pairings. Before entering hospitality, Illa worked in creative communications across Berlin, Seoul, and Sydney—these days, she shares stories from her wine studies and the people she meets along the way on her blog. A Master of Wine student fluent in Korean, German, and English, Illa is committed to promoting wine appreciation with a focus on Asian perspectives, connecting cultures and opening conversations around taste, identity, and tradition
From whisky-coloured tea to Eiswein: a Riesling story
As a nerd for wine, I love introducing non-wine drinkers to wine, and the most inclusive grape on my wine journey has always been Riesling.
Growing up as a young Korean girl in Riesling-land Germany, many things around the drinking culture were new and mysterious to me. It started with the cellars in my friends’ homes stocked with wines and beers, and the drinks offered at the dinner table once I turned sixteen—the legal drinking age for wine in Germany. The cultural DNA I inherited from my parents, however, could not have been more different.
I believe my mother could have become a great connoisseur of wine if she’d had the chance. But while my mother was brave—almost radical for her generation—to study abroad with two children and leave her husband to care for himself for nearly a decade, she was also a morally exemplary woman of 1970s Korea, where drinking wasn’t considered proper for women. When I came home from drinks with friends some 30 years later, she accepted that times had changed, but never imagined I might actually enjoy the drinks themselves—she thought it was just a social thing.
My father, by contrast, was expected to “drink like a proper man”, especially in the bar-driven business culture of the 1980s. But he has ALDH2 deficiency—a genetic condition affecting 30–50% of East Asians that makes metabolising alcohol difficult—so he used to arrive early and bribe bartenders to serve him whisky-coloured tea. Because of his own struggles with alcohol, he was thrilled that I didn’t share the same intolerance and even boasted about my fondness for drinks to his golf buddies. My mother, mortified and also a little amused, declared it the end of any remaining prospects I might have had on the marriage market.
Despite living in Germany for most of my life, I didn’t have much exposure to Riesling while I was there. Perhaps still recovering from the reputation of mass-produced, sugary styles from the ’70s and ’80s, most twenty-somethings in Berlin opted for Pinot Grigio or Prosecco—Riesling was seen as somewhat outdated. I was among those who misunderstood it as a white wine that was simply too sweet. I now deeply regret not discovering the amazing wines of Germany when I had the chance, with the wineries of the Mosel, Nahe, and Pfalz just a weekend train ride away.
But Riesling eventually found its way to me. In the early 2000s, Korean Air added Canadian Icewine Inniskillin to its duty-free catalogue. Premium spirit gifting after overseas travel is common in Korea—typically Scotch or Cognac, which my dad often re-gifted. A friend recommended the Icewine instead: low in alcohol and sweet like honey. It was the first alcoholic drink he genuinely enjoyed.
Soon after, he asked me to bring home some German Eiswein on my next holiday visit. My go-to “wine store” at the time was Aldi—for a €3 Chianti Classico (someone had told me the pink band and the rooster indicate quality)—or I’d treat myself to a €10 Châteauneuf-du-Pape from Edeka, mostly because I liked saying Châteauneuf-du-Pape (It made me feel terribly sophisticated). But I knew I wouldn’t find Eiswein in either, so I went to KaDeWe, one of Europe’s most historic department stores, and bought a 375ml bottle for €45. The half-bottle was a relief—€45 was a huge expense for a student.
It was the first time our family shared a bottle of wine. I remember tasting it and thinking: whether you like sweet wines or not, the quality was indisputable. From then on, Riesling became our family wine.
Sorry, Vidal—our connection to Germany and that shared experience made Riesling the natural choice. After all, it is the grape that helped my father enjoy wine with his family.
My fascination with Riesling then evolved into a broader curiosity about wine after I moved to Australia—a country that reintroduced me to the grape in a completely different light. The long, sunny summers of Sydney make you truly appreciate the steely, piercing acidity of Clare Valley Riesling—a style so austere and refreshing, it challenged everything I thought I knew about the variety.
It is this versatility and expression that make Riesling far more than just a favourite grape. In my wine journey, it sometimes formed a bridge between generations and sometimes became the connecting element of the cultures I call home. It’s the door-opener to our customers’ hearts when pairing wine with Asian cuisine. In truth, Riesling, in its many forms and styles, is about complexity and balance—familiar yet refined, approachable yet serious, as it often is with all the great grape varieties of the world. Add to that its incredible aging potential, and you’ll find that there’s a Riesling for everyone.
My parents are still astounded that their daughter is so deeply immersed in wine studies—but they’ve come to enjoy the journey with me. They’ve always been lovers of history and culture. Writing this, I realise it’s time for the next step in our shared wine experience: a Banh Mi paired with an Auslese Riesling.
Insider tip: it’s the extra chilli and extra pâté that make this combination unmissable. Try it.
Main photo caption: 'a 2021 Gunderloch Riesling Auslese paired with Banh Mi, May 2025 in a park in Sydney'.
