PITCHER THIS Young Koreans get toasty with soju cocktails.

PHOTO: MIREYA ACIERTO

You can’t miss the well-known restaurant Blackbird, and the adjacent sushi spot Meiji is also clearly marked. But the door wedged between the two doesn’t hint at the life hiding within. Open it anyway, head up the stairs and soon you’ll hear the faint sounds of Korean pop music, laughter and maybe even a few toasts of “gumbae.” Congratulations, you’ve found Nara Lounge (623 W Randolph St, 312-887-9999), known to few outside the Korean community.

“The name means ‘our nation’ or ‘our culture,’” says Korea native Alan Chou, who also owns Meiji below. “My Korean friends’ number one complaint was driving to Koreatown for drinks and food, which is a half-hour from downtown. And downtown bars that have ‘Asian night’ are loud, clubby and packed. I wanted to create a chill, relaxed environment that’s conversation-friendly, but where you can really be Korean, whatever that means.”

Here in the low-lit and cozy one-year-old space, apparently that means to travel in packs, show up around midnight, refill soju glasses often and counter the buzz with a never-ending stream of anju, share-size plates heaping with crimson sauces and spicy-sweet snacks made from recipes that have been passed down for generations. Tables also sport evidence of a trend that’s so popular in Korea, it’s trickled over to the States: Alongside the green glass bottles of soju (a distilled liquor similar in taste to vodka) and pitchers of soju cocktails (which combine the liquor with fruit juices or a slightly sweet drinkable yogurt) rest a few shot glasses of whiskey, with the occasional bottle alongside.

“Actually, in Korea, everybody drinks whiskey—American whiskey—and especially Johnny Walker Blue,” explains Preston Chang, a fast-talking 29-year-old businessman and a regular at Nara. “I think it’s because Korean people like to show off, right?” He’s asking his friends, other Korean twentysomethings who are laughing, maybe slightly embarrassed, but nodding in agreement nonetheless. In a faux New Yorker–tough guy accent he continues, “Yeah, so I’m-a orderin’ some Johnny Walker Blue. Watch me.”

The cachet of that bottle of Blue comes with a price tag—it’s $475 here at Nara, but can run around $1,500 at bars in Korea. Tonight, Chang and his friends aren’t in the mood to “show off,” so they’re drinking soju, and customarily refilling the small glasses as soon as they’re emptied. At 28, Hyun Woo Kim is the youngest at the table, so by tradition, he uses two hands to pour and keeps two hands around his own glass when someone is pouring for him. “Actually,” Kim says, “I’m supposed to move my body away from them when I drink, out of respect, but I really only do that with very old Koreans.”

A group at an adjacent table, also in their late twenties, clearly shares the same mind set. With two hands around her glass, it’s clear Julia Wu is the baby of the group, but no one calls her out for not turning away while sipping her soju. Smears of red-pepper paste on the plate survive the tofu kimchi the group just devoured, and there’s an order of samgyupsal, or pork belly, on the way, which Wu’s friend Paul Choi proclaims is one of Nara’s best anju. He should know; he’s the chef-owner of Su-Ra Korean restaurant in Bucktown. “Americans go to bars and get wasted,” Choi says. “Korean tradition is about hanging out and enjoying good food while you’re drinking. It spurs conversation, like, ‘Wow this is really good, right? Did you taste that? That’s phenomenal.’ It’s a tradition for a reason, so a place like this will never go out of style.”