We didn’t invent this. We just stopped cutting corners.

The recipe was never the problem

We wanted a roasted-grain drink with five named ingredients, their proportions clearly listed, and no added sugar or sweeteners. Each food gets its own preparation and roast.

Five roasts, five finish lines

Rice, corn and beans don’t cook at the same speed. Roast them together and either the beans stay raw or the rice burns — so we give each ingredient its own preparation. So each food gets its own roast and its own finish line. The process, in full.

Then we printed the numbers

32 · 26 · 19 · 13 · 10, on the front. It means we can’t quietly change the formula when an input gets expensive, and we have to admit in public that white rice is there for texture. Both are fine. A number you can check beats an adjective you have to trust.

What we won’t say

Misu is a food, not a treatment. It is also not sweet — it is nutty enough that people mistake it for sweet, which is our favourite thing anyone says about it.

Where it’s made

South Korea, in one facility that roasts, mills and packs every lot. The tradition is ordinary there — a thing people grew up drinking. We kept the method and added the one thing a household version never needed: a spec, so March tastes like January.