drinking in a box
The ghosts of Soviet statues come out to play on the Krimskaya Naberezhnaya’s floating Bebe Bar, a perfect venue for melancholy alcoholism. Go out for a ride on the drunken boat, if you’ll promise not to pitch yourself over the side.
PHOTO GEORGY IVANOV/TEXT YURI FOKIN feedback
SCENE: Driving along the Krimskaya Naberezhnaya, you should be thinking about leaving the nocturnal seafront ghost town behind in a blurry blaze. Empty places are empty for good reasons, you know. In a universe slightly more logical, a desolate quay overshadowed by a graveyard of Soviet monuments would be the last place to think up any kind of drinking establishment. Since this is precisely where Bebe Bar is located, nothing hereafter should come as a shock. The venue is hidden in an old waterbus Valery Brusov — yes, all you literary folk, its named after the famous Symbolist poet, but don’t ask why — which doubles as a ship hotel and presumably even goes places during the summer season. To actually get to the bar, you’ll have to tackle some tight security but, the moment you enter, you’re bound to find yourself knee-deep in persons with faces right off the Most Wanted list, who are maybe just your normal party people trying to look a tad more macho than usual. LAYOUT: Battle up two flights of dark stairs, stopping halfway to pay a visit to the compulsory cloakroom. The bar entrance is a menacing hole that makes you wonder if the venue itself is not somehow detached from the actual boat in open space. What hits you right from the start is the incredible, now stick with me, the incredible square-ness of the joint. The bar itself is square, the dance floor is square, the tables, the plasma screens, the plasma screens built into the tables, the chairs and the counter are all so quadratic it seems unhealthy. The only thing to contrast this overwhelming boxiness are the circular mirrors behind the bar counter. Bebe Bar clearly strives for a minimalist-industrial aesthetic, and it certainly succeeds in making itself seem like the glamorous inside of some top-of-the-line dishwasher. Everything — the blinding illumination, the hard chairs and love seats and the exceptionally wide drinking glasses — seems to have been designed with discomfort in mind. The funny thing is that it grows on you in a matter of minutes and you feel like you would not want it any other way. GROOVE: Bebe Bar instills the sense that you are completely isolated from the rest of the world, alone, and you want more of it for that. The looming emptiness outside, the darkness of the waves underneath and the ghosts of Soviet political figures across the road actually do permeate the place, which is completely torn out of time and space. Large amounts of alcohol go well with this feeling. Another thing that really sets the mood is the music. First, it deceives as some poppy danceable house, but once you’re relaxed enough to actually listen, it turns out that the music has depth, and that depth is filled with ethnic rhythms, funk and even a dash of soul. You might even hear some Old School New York house in there, once you’ve drank enough. COSTS: This spot is about drinking and drinking alone, and it shows in the prices. The most efficient spirits go for 30 to 40 rubles per 10 ml, while wine and beer run around 200. And that’s about it. There’s hardly any cocktails, and nothing at all to nibble at — Bebe Bar means business. BATHROOMS: Now this is amusing: the restrooms are currently located outside the bar, on the ship itself. Nothing else to say. If you’ve seen one Soviet-era bathroom, you’ve seen ‘em all. HOURS: No point in coming before midnight, as you risk finding it as empty as the seafront outside. The bar never closes on weekends, but beware of the oh-so frequent “private after-parties.” Since no future warning is given, you may just end up staring at closed doors. |
