When it comes to Fake Jing-A and Real Jing-A, the number-one sign that they’re different is, well, the sign.
“Look, it’s a uterus,” a friend says, as we spot Fake Jing-A’s logo outside its shopping mall home. Sure enough, a red uterus adorns a large plastic placard advertising Fake Jing-A, which opened six weeks prior to our visit.
But things aren’t as they appear. What look like Fallopian tubes from a distance are in fact ram’s horns. And what seemed like a uterine outline is actually the pint of beer from which they sprout. Altogether, the insignia is supposed to represent a mountain goat, and said mountain goat is supposed to represent Fake Jing-A. This should probably be made clearer.
Before I plunge into the reproductive crux of this story, though, let’s clarify one thing: Fake Jing-A is not Fake Jing-A’s actual name. Rather, it goes by ‘Jing-A 1979,’ and it is a thinly veiled imitation of one of my favorite hangouts in all Beijing – the Jing-A Taproom in Courtyard 4’s 1949: The Hidden City.
But for the purposes of this article, I’ll refer to it as Jing-B. Because that’s what I’d have called it. Not that anyone asked me – I just showed up last month with a notebook and, more importantly, a gaggle of current and former Jing-A employees.
Below is what ensues.
It takes 45 minutes to get from Jing-A to Jing-B. We ride Line 1 to its bitter end, where we switch to the Batong Line and head into Tongzhou. The Jing-A crew bring a growler of Jing-A beer for the trip. Fellow subway passengers love this! (They don’t.)
Upon our arrival, Jing-B surprises us. I guess I’d imagined something shadier – a dark, unkempt space with gray foods and a villainous owner arranging his shiny gold coins into neat little stacks as he cowers in the corner, fearful that the owners of real Jing-A will show up and reclaim what is rightfully theirs. I specifically tell my Jing-A buddies not to wear their Jing-A gear, lest it start a confrontation.
This is needless paranoia on my part. Because, first things first, nobody there gives a shit. And second, as one of the Jing-A boys says at first sight, Jing-B “is kind of legit.”
Perhaps we shouldn’t be surprised; China has always produced high-quality fakes. The Tongzhou mall that it’s found in is genuinely cooler than any in Chaoyangmen – at least in terms of architecture: the sides flash purple and blue, plants outside are draped in twinkling lights, and the upbeat sounds of pop music play to suburban shoppers below.
Jing-B is not hiding its borrowed name – rather, it has refashioned it into the aforementioned logo and the enticing slogans “CRAFT BEER,” and next, “ROASTED MEAT.” The latter sounds exactly like my plans for this place, except I’m doing an entirely different kind of roast. Heyo.
Jing-B, however, is not joking. At least its service is no joke – smiling hostesses welcome us in and lead us to a camo-patterned booth surrounded by lacy, transparent curtains. Large wall-sized windows showcase Jing-B’s heavy-duty brewing equipment. The slickly produced hits of Justin Bieber’s most recent album soothe us from the speakers above.
Why are their booths covered in camouflage? Why is the soundtrack almost exclusively Justin Bieber? What the fuck happened in 1979?
This is when the Jing-A boys start to get nervous. They had walked in with confident swagger, but now their breath quickens as they flip through the laminated pages of the beautifully photographed menu. “These have got to be stock photos,” says one. But I’m not so sure. What if this place is cooler than the Sanlitun Jing-A? What if it is they, and not the employees of Jing-B, who have wool over their eyes? After all, Jing-B has ramen and onion rings!
But then we taste the beer.
“Passable,” is the most polite conclusion at the table. It sucks.
There are three types of beer: white, black and ‘Mountain Goat,’ the latter of which appears to be Jing-B’s attempt at an IPA. They are uniformly terrible, amateurish attempts at craft beer. What’s worse, they’re weak. This comes as a relief for the Jing-A boys, who crack open a growler of their own Workers Pale Ale for a gloating taste test.
None of this seems to bother the staff, though. As it turns out, Jing-B is more of a restaurant than a taproom. Other patrons are ordering hot plates of ribs and racks of lamb. Despite it being a Saturday night, no-one appears to be drinking very much.
And why would they? We’re in a mall basement outside a Tongzhou subway station. Surely only those shopping would stop by for a snack. And surely only those living nearby would stop by to shop.
For those who do… well, they could do worse. The menu is fun and weird. Ribs take 30 minutes, and lamb takes an hour. We’re willing to wait. In the meantime, we down flights of beer like they’re water (because that’s pretty much what they are), and munch on smaller dishes ranging from pretty bad to decent – shredded-pork salad (bad), garlic eggplant (bad), spicy cauliflower (decent).
Soon enough, we’re drunk and goofing around like kids, pouring salted milk tea into each others’ mouths and playing in the nearby arcade. But the waitstaff don’t mind and even wave good-bye when we leave. I come to the surprising realization that I’m satisfied. Bravo, Jing-B. Bravo.
That doesn’t mean that I get it. I mean, why are their booths covered in camouflage? Why is the soundtrack almost exclusively Justin Bieber? What the fuck happened in 1979? (That last question is particularly pertinent, as I’d personally like to open a ‘Jing-A 2009’ that plays exclusively Jason DeRulo hits.)
But ultimately, Jing-B leaves me – and the Jing-A crew – with a rosier view of intellectual property theft than we’d expected. It’s a weird feeling. But after all, things aren’t so black and white – they’re black, white and ‘Mountain Goat.’
“Maybe we can have our staff meeting here,” says one Jing-A staffer.
“Nah, that’d be weird,” the rest of us conclude.
[Images by Holly Li]
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