The neon sign emblazoning ‘The Man who Sold the World’ across Danwei’s outer wall must surely refer to the small David Bowie mirror behind the bar. Because the men that dominate the rest of the decor – Stalin, Lenin, Marx, Engels and, of course, Mao – were better known for collectivizing the world than commercializing it.
It is easy to be cynical about the communist kitsch, which, thanks to cheap t-shirt producers and hollow teenage idealists, is all a little tired. The lineup of socialism’s most recognizable profiles now seems out of place unless appearing next to Warhol prints or Homer Simpson in the style of Che Guevara. Even the name Danwei (or ‘work unit’) has been in very public use by Beijing blogger Jeremy Goldkorn for over a decade.
But while not drawing on anything hugely original, the hutong haunt actually possesses a certain stripped-back charm. Vintage lamps ooze a dim orange light onto walls, each adorned with patterned wallpaper or casually-affixed band posters. Armchair socialists make do with a motley assortment of seating as the understatedly stylish (and at the time of visiting, entirely Chinese) crowd chatter over pre-90’s music fed in from a MacBook Pro.
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Photos by Noemi Cassanelli
It is reminiscent of the we-just-threw-this-together-yesterday vibe found in London’s Dalston or NYC’s Williamsburg. And although the jumble of furnishings and influences may be thoroughly considered, there’s a believable nonchalance about their selection and placement.
It is a shame, then, that so little time seems to have been dedicated to the menu. Of Danwei’s two signature drinks, the first combines Chinese yellow wine and ginger ale into an overpoweringly malty-flavored concoction (RMB25). The second somewhat stretches the definition of a ‘special,’ as it consists only of whisky and Baileys (RMB25). Having long harbored a secret, shameful love for the Irish cream, we do not actually consider this an ill-advised combination. But that certainly doesn’t make it special.
There’s also a range of classic cocktails (mostly in the affordable RMB30-40 bracket), though the insipid mojito we sample suffers from low alcohol content and a lack of both sweetness and zest.
But then who really cares? Cocktails are for princelings, poseurs and fu‘erdai. With so many bourgeois-baiters overseeing proceedings it is perhaps only fitting to loiter outside on the hutong with a proletarian-priced Tsingtao (RMB15). Should nearby courtyard residents permit, this could prove a rather good spot for just that.
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