Beijing Boyce

Plan A: Sedate Saturday Night quickly became Plan B: Unscheduled Pub Crawl to Later Regret after I hooked up with Special K, Miss P and The Cellar Rat last weekend. I posted live about our stops to Hooters and The Den. Here’s how the rest of the night played out…

Q Bar: Twas bustling, but not uncomfortably crowded, although the music was too loud. To numb myself to it, I ordered an Alfonso Special. This drink’s advantage is its absence on the menu: this means one of the Q’s two bartenders extraordinaire, George and Echo, will get involved, apply their mixology skills and ensure a quality beverage.

Our crew started on the sofas but the arrival of numerous acquaintances required a move to the coveted “bed” section by the bar. The area is elevated, triangular and populated with a table and a dozen pillows. It also necessitates removing your shoes, something that I’m not keen about doing in public save for a few crucial places (a hot tub, for example).

A man is emasculated when revealing his socks. He faces the olfactory risk of sharing space with “bed sitters” who have less than satisfactory pedary hygiene. And in my case, sitting cross-legged or sidesaddle for an hour is as enjoyable as eyeball acupuncture (note to self: cut down on those carbs).

I sat next to a Shanghai-based photographer and we compared drinking holes in our two cites. The general conclusion: Shanghai wins on service and quality, while Beijing is earthier and, I argue, more fun due to a diverse expatriate population. (Case in point, our group included diplomats, journalists, businesspeople and NGO employees.)

Nanjie: Loud and crowded and hot and sweaty downstairs, so we headed for the balcony, which requires climbing through a second-floor window (there’s that Beijing earthiness). The balcony is relatively quiet, with great views of the street action, though I have a tip for management - the coniferous trees out there with razor-sharp needles don’t a fun bar experience make (except in the case of that very limited S&M niche).

By the time I removed a half-dozen barbs from my hand, Special K was talking to a young hyperactive Australian woman. Having established everyone’s nationalities, the woman became increasingly, uh, explicit with her opinions and questions. She informed us that she would only “defile” her body with alcohol and thought smoking to be utterly vile. She asked us in more graphic terms than I’ll share here if we’d had any gay - and I don’t mean happy - experiences. To be fair, she doubled my knowledge or orifice-related sexual terminology. (Again, can you get this in Shanghai? If so, can you get it for free?)

Having forsaken my mental note to go home after Q Bar, and acquiring a headache from trying to grasp the logistics of the acts this woman described, I decided to make my move (as Miss P had smartly done 20 minutes earlier):

“That’s it for me guys,” I said.
“One more drink,” said Special K.
“No, seriously, that’s it. I want to watch baseball tomorrow morning.”

This caused The Cellar Rat to bring out the secret weapon: “Hey, look at that place across the street, with the skull and crossbones above it. It’s new - you can write about it.”

True, a bar called Heat simmered there, although the “crossbones”, as Special K helpfully noted, looked more like four sets of crude male genitalia.

Here is a short review of Heat: We entered, we found a dance floor the size of Nanjie’s and holding a dozen people (most seemingly staggeringly drunk), we found a bar in back with a few patrons and we found a wait staff with an eager “please, just buy ONE drink” glint in their eyes. Before guilt overtook us, Special K and I caught The Cellar Rat mid-order and we hustled out. (Note: this doesn’t mean that Heat will not be popular, it’s just that it wasn’t hot on this night. It wasn’t cooking. It was on the back burner. It was… let’s just go on.)

We headed next door to Caribe, a cavernous club packed with gyrating and mostly fit bodies. We parked on the second floor and watched dancers of all shapes and sizes and nationalities sweat buckets. Occasionally, about two-thirds of them engaged in a kind of mass line dance.

Directly below a 75-year-old man with the foot speed of someone half his age showed his moves and drank Johnnie Walker Red on the rocks.

Ten feet away, a brunette and a blond competed for some guy on the dance floor. The blond grabbed and kissed him so hard I though she might suck out a lung. This caused the brunette to grab his buddy and do the same, in the hope, I guess, of inspiring jealousy. It didn’t happen, so the brunette interrupted the Hoover-like vacuum betwixt the couple under the pretext that they should all dance together.

This scene made me feel dirty all over. Or maybe it was because I hadn’t been home since 10 AM that morning, having gone seamlessly from working to partying.

“That’s it for me, guys,” I said.
“One more drink,” said Special K.

The man is evil, but they say you can do a deal with the devil (or is it vice versa?). So we made a compromise: we would go to Rickshaw, not to drink, but to eat and rehydrate.

With the England-France rugby game on, fans were flank to shank in the place, so we braved the cool and sat outside on the balcony. Special K mocked me for ordering apple juice or at least I think he did: it sounded something like “youse guys arnt reee-yall men. I’m ordrin’ beee-yeer.” A few minutes later came poetic justice - he began tearing up because the wings were “too hot”. And those were the medium ones…

Ah, a Beijing Saturday night…