Riyadh’s Secret Liquor Shop: Crown Prince Defies Decades of Saudi Tradition

Paul Riverbank, 12/21/2025In a tightly watched Riyadh shop, Saudi Arabia discreetly allows select foreigners to buy alcohol, hinting at cautious reform amid enduring tradition—a striking symbol of a kingdom balancing modernization with deeply rooted restrictions.

For years, this small store in the Diplomatic Quarter carried a mythic status. Once, only non-Muslim diplomats could step inside. Now, for the first time, the doors swing open a little wider—though only a select, and very specific, group of foreign residents can peer in. Officially, there’s still a veil of silence. You won’t read government announcements. But look closely at the swelling lines, the papers clutched in hands, and it’s clear something has shifted.

Every step inside is deliberate. You’ll face security staff—not bored, but unwavering. Documents are checked, visitors are patted down, and the rules ban phones and smart glasses, hinting at the sensitivity. The shop’s interior, more utilitarian than opulent, has shelves stacked with bottles—beer, wine, whisky—at prices that, frankly, would make any European wince. Diplomats skirt the steepest costs, thanks to tax exemptions. Their peers, less lucky, especially the group newly granted access under the “Premium Residency” program, shoulder a heftier bill.

You don’t just walk in off the street and claim this residency. The rules demand wealth, investments, niche skills, or a professional pedigree that few can brandish. While this program spares applicants the need for a Saudi sponsor—a notable break from the past—it’s still a club with a high barrier to entry. The clientele is small, and many, uneasy with the continued social taboos, ask to remain unnamed when approached by the occasional journalist. Still, they’ll quietly say the selection’s “decent,” even if some miss the diversity of neighboring Gulf shelves. “Prices are sky-high,” one whispered against the hum of the store. But access, they admit, matters more than variety.

This cautious, almost hidden, relaxation of the drinking ban feels like yet another test in how far the kingdom can push boundaries without toppling old conventions. In recent years, the push to modernize has grabbed headlines. Cinemas showing blockbuster films, women at the wheel, outdoor concerts drawing tens of thousands—all symbols of a society in motion. Yet, that motion is uneven. The crown prince’s reforms meet a red line when it comes to political dissent. Step outside the tolerated, and consequences follow swiftly.

For ordinary Saudis, not much changes. The alcohol ban, rooted in a notorious diplomatic scandal of the 1950s—when the king’s own son, after drinking, killed a British official—remains stubbornly intact. The majority, whether citizens or long-term residents, must make do with clever alternatives. Weekend jaunts over the causeway to Bahrain, where pints are poured with little ceremony, are routine for the well-off. Others, less fortunate, take their chances with smuggled bottles or home-brewed spirits—a risky, sometimes dangerous pursuit.

Meanwhile, local markets have seen a rise in alcohol-free beers and sparkling beverages, which, for some, provide enough of an illusion. It’s a delicate dance: old habits, new influences. Evening crowds at major events mingle with imported brands and Instagram feeds, evidence that change finds its own, sometimes unexpected, rhythm.

Looking back, Saudi Arabia’s complex relationship with alcohol draws a straight line from the past to today’s slow drift. The shop’s hidden location and Atlantic-sized price tags are reminders—change here is incremental, cautious, and closely monitored. Yet, for those who notice such things, even this one unmarked door, hidden away in Riyadh, suggests old certainties no longer seem quite as immovable.

If you visited one of Riyadh’s booming festivals lately, you’d likely notice people pressed close to sizzling food stalls, some laughing over cans of alcohol-free beer, others busy snapping photos for friends scattered around the world. There’s a certain buzz—novel for a city not long ago defined by strict boundaries. But not every queue is about street food and snapshots. In a quieter district, beyond the city’s ordinary commotion, discreet lines form beside a shop that, for decades, was off-limits for almost everyone.For years, this small store in the Diplomatic Quarter carried a mythic status. Once, only non-Muslim diplomats could step inside. Now, for the first time, the doors swing open a little wider—though only a select, and very specific, group of foreign residents can peer in. Officially, there’s still a veil of silence. You won’t read government announcements. But look closely at the swelling lines, the papers clutched in hands, and it’s clear something has shifted.Every step inside is deliberate. You’ll face security staff—not bored, but unwavering. Documents are checked, visitors are patted down, and the rules ban phones and smart glasses, hinting at the sensitivity. The shop’s interior, more utilitarian than opulent, has shelves stacked with bottles—beer, wine, whisky—at prices that, frankly, would make any European wince. Diplomats skirt the steepest costs, thanks to tax exemptions. Their peers, less lucky, especially the group newly granted access under the “Premium Residency” program, shoulder a heftier bill.You don’t just walk in off the street and claim this residency. The rules demand wealth, investments, niche skills, or a professional pedigree that few can brandish. While this program spares applicants the need for a Saudi sponsor—a notable break from the past—it’s still a club with a high barrier to entry. The clientele is small, and many, uneasy with the continued social taboos, ask to remain unnamed when approached by the occasional journalist. Still, they’ll quietly say the selection’s “decent,” even if some miss the diversity of neighboring Gulf shelves. “Prices are sky-high,” one whispered against the hum of the store. But access, they admit, matters more than variety.This cautious, almost hidden, relaxation of the drinking ban feels like yet another test in how far the kingdom can push boundaries without toppling old conventions. In recent years, the push to modernize has grabbed headlines. Cinemas showing blockbuster films, women at the wheel, outdoor concerts drawing tens of thousands—all symbols of a society in motion. Yet, that motion is uneven. The crown prince’s reforms meet a red line when it comes to political dissent. Step outside the tolerated, and consequences follow swiftly.For ordinary Saudis, not much changes. The alcohol ban, rooted in a notorious diplomatic scandal of the 1950s—when the king’s own son, after drinking, killed a British official—remains stubbornly intact. The majority, whether citizens or long-term residents, must make do with clever alternatives. Weekend jaunts over the causeway to Bahrain, where pints are poured with little ceremony, are routine for the well-off. Others, less fortunate, take their chances with smuggled bottles or home-brewed spirits—a risky, sometimes dangerous pursuit.Meanwhile, local markets have seen a rise in alcohol-free beers and sparkling beverages, which, for some, provide enough of an illusion. It’s a delicate dance: old habits, new influences. Evening crowds at major events mingle with imported brands and Instagram feeds, evidence that change finds its own, sometimes unexpected, rhythm.Looking back, Saudi Arabia’s complex relationship with alcohol draws a straight line from the past to today’s slow drift. The shop’s hidden location and Atlantic-sized price tags are reminders—change here is incremental, cautious, and closely monitored. Yet, for those who notice such things, even this one unmarked door, hidden away in Riyadh, suggests old certainties no longer seem quite as immovable.