Midnight

That was the name of the bar that used to inhabit the upstairs portion of the little blockhouse that is now Rickshaw - a bar I have recently come to hate.

Midnight, however, was a delight. It was an early venture by George & Echo, two young Chinese who somehow became enamoured of cocktail culture and transformed themselves into a pair of self-taught aficionados and mean mixers. They have striven to provide in Beijing a slightly more affordable alternative to the swish-but-soulless hotel lounges, for those of us who share their enthusiasm for a strong drink elegantly served. Midnight, alas, was never very profitable, and disputes with the landlord led to its closing down after only 6 months or so; but it left us with more than a few happy memories.

Just the right level of intimacy - low lighting, soft music (an impeccable selection of classic jazz and blues). It's so rare (almost unheard of!) for a bar or restaurant in Beijing to get this right. And some pretty fine mixed drinks, too; some of their own devising. (Although George, in particular, could be somewhat over-fastidious at times - fussing around for ages with a spiral of lemon on the side of the glass while my thirst grew impatient.)

Of course, for me the fact that the place was deserted most of the time was an added draw. I think it was often pretty busy on the weekends, but I'd only ever go on slow weekdays, and I'd often have the place all to myself. Well, all to myself and a companion.

Yes, it was a wonderfully romantic spot. Unfortunately, I wasn't really able to take much advantage of that - although I did enjoy one very cosy, sexy, flirtatious evening with The Poet there, during our brief, intense affair. What I remember most vividly about that evening, however, is that as we were leaving - around midnight, appropriately enough - The Poet struck up a conversation with Echo about contemporary Chinese literature. Echo, it transpired, was a keen reader, and had some opinions on one of The Poet's favourite authors. In such circumstances, The Poet tends to let her enthusiasm run away with her; she can be formidably intense, unrelenting once she gets into an intellectual discussion; she completely loses track of time; she loses all awareness of anyone else in the room. After half an hour or more, Echo was plainly growing weary, getting anxious to close up the bar 'early' and head home. But The Poet was not reading any of the signals, she just would not stop. Echo and I established a silent communion: she looked at me in despairing appeal to help her get out of this conversation; I smiled apologetically and mugged that there was nothing much I could do; she rolled her eyes back at me, as if to say, "Doesn't this girl want to go home and sleep with you?" Ah, that was the problem, you see. I was never sure. She usually seemed far happier to stay up all night talking bullshit with total strangers than to come to bed. It was rather dispiriting.

But enough of that. All long ago now.

George & Echo have moved on to grander things - the much larger, louder, busier Q Bar (which I suppose I should write up one of these days). I wish them well; but it's really not a patch on Midnight. That's one bar I really miss (and not just for the romantic associations).