Hop Sing Laundromat Owner Liquidation Rare Booze Collection at Bargain Prices
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Lê, the mononymous and eccentric owner of Philadelphia’s Chinatown speakeasy Hop Sing Laundromat, has begun selling off a massive, personal hoard of rare spirits—and he is pricing them to move. According to a February 12, 2026 report by The Philadelphia Inquirer, the sale coincides with an expansion of the venue’s operating hours. “I’ve been collecting these bottles for years,” Lê stated. “At some point, it’s time to let them go.”
The “bargain” claim is backed by market realities. Among the inventory is the elusive Hibiki 21-year-old Japanese whisky, which is currently being poured for $100 per 2 ounces. For context, a single bottle of Hibiki 21 often retails for over $1,200 on the secondary market, and high-end bars typically charge significantly more for a standard 1.5-ounce pour. The sale represents a liquidation of “vast inventory,” suggesting that other “unicorn” bottles—likely including the thousands of dollars worth of rare ryes and bourbons Lê has famously stockpiled, such as his 2022 buyout of the state’s entire supply of 11-year-old Old Overholt—will also be available at below-market rates.
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Despite the allure of cut-rate vintage spirits, access to the sale is far from frictionless. The “bargains” come with the venue’s notorious baggage: a strict cash-only policy, a mandatory dress code (no sneakers, shorts, or sandals), and a ban on all photography and cell phone use. Potential patrons must ring a doorbell at an unmarked gate and wait to be vetted by the owner, who has personally banned over 5,000 people for infractions ranging from bad tipping to taking selfies. Critics and alienated former customers frequently describe the process as “pretentious” and the owner as “arrogant,” arguing that no amount of discounted whiskey is worth the anxiety of potentially being turned away or scolded for checking a text message.
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Opened in 2012 at 1029 Race Street, Hop Sing Laundromat quickly established itself as one of the country’s most rigid yet acclaimed cocktail bars. Hidden behind a nondescript metal gate, the windowless interior features a floor tiled with thousands of pennies and a bar top covered in nickels. Lê, a Vietnamese immigrant who jokingly refers to the establishment as the “world’s best North Korean cocktail bar,” built the venue’s reputation on an obsessive attention to detail—using only premium spirits and fresh-pressed juices—and an equally obsessive enforcement of privacy, aiming to create a sanctuary where patrons could drink without the intrusion of social media.
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