Taste innovative drinks thriving in Berlin’ s unique bar scene.
“Welcome to an evening of divine imbibing and decadence,” said the emcee from a compact, elevated stage in the back of the narrow, crowded bar in Berlin. He wore red-and-black striped pants and had fringes on his jacket’s epaulets, and he introduced Roxy Diamond, a Swiss expat who, working down from a flouncy dress to full burlesque regalia (which is to say minimal regalia), strutted, shimmied and gleefully evoked catcalls.
It would seem like an exercise in nostalgia, evocative of the things that iconic Weimar-era writers Joseph Roth and Christopher Isherwood made famous about the city. That’s what this bar, Prinzipal Kreuzberg, is like. Sort of. The thing that brought me back to now was the bourbon cocktail infused with grapefruit, dates and cinnamon made by a tall Norwegian expat named Odd Strandbakken, all boyish features and blond hair. It was Saturday night and I had arrived early, as everyone recommended. Strandbakken regaled me with tales of when he lived in the North Pole, such as the time he faced down a polar bear. Then he did some Vegas-caliber card tricks.
Berlin is a city where past and present are on a constant collision course. History hangs heavy, but creativity — and the creative types that give a city its energy — remain among its exhilarating hallmarks. David Bowie, for one, once deemed it “the greatest cultural extravaganza that one could imagine.”
There’s much to-do this year throughout Germany to celebrate the 500th anniversary of Reinheitsgebot, the German beer-purity laws. Abiding by tradition like that is virtuous, to be sure, but personally, I consider disruption way more captivating. That’s precisely what I found in this city, where creative bartenders are establishing new traditions in a way that’s uniquely Berlinesque — imaginative while nodding to the “cultural extravaganza” that historically defined it.
That’s what hit me when I walked into Fairytale Bar, best described as a fever dream engineered by the Brothers Grimm and Tim Burton. The menus are retrofitted into vintage illustrated storybooks with test tubes of cocktail samples nestled in the pages. The bartenders wear corseted dresses, and the decor has the feel of an aged aunt’s kitsch-laden living room.
My first drink was served in a glass vessel designed as a highheeled shoe, a sort-of salute to Cinderella. My second intriguingly combined Scotch, plum wine and Guinness beer syrup. But those drinks were tame compared with the sensory bonanza at Fragrances, a glammy lounge in the RitzCarlton that boasts the kind of madcap formulas usually found in molecular gastronomy temples or in mixology bars that require X-ray glasses to find the unmarked door. I was sure I was in the wrong place when I walked in the departmentstore-style entrance, lined with glass display vessels, each containing a designer perfume, scent samples in small boxes and liquor bottles to show the ingredients in the cocktail that the fragrance inspired. This was the menu.
After about 15 minutes of inhaling gorgeous, indulgent scents, I settled on a mezcal-based drink with ingredients involving orange, sandalwood, cloves and pink peppercorn inspired by Frederic Malle’s Vetiver Extraordinaire. It was spicy, earthy and bright in scent and flavor.
The following night, a local friend instructed me to meet him at Gin & Tonic Bar. It was safe to assume that, with a name like that, there’d be no whimsy. The brassaccented space was as minimalist as the starring drink: nearly 100 bottles of gin lining a mirrored wall behind the bar.
But my attention was diverted by a glass dome on the bar containing an arrangement of a bottle of English gin, a small bottle of Jägermeister, a lime and a sign that read “Pretty Amber.” Then and there I knew I had walked into something truly surreal, as my grown-up cocktail-sipping self tried to imagine how Jägermeister, that fierce liqueur I was always instructed to shoot cold, would play in a tranquil cocktail-bar setting.
Figured I’d try it — just for old time’s sake, right? Actually, it was nothing like the old times I remembered. The small measure of inky bitter liqueur added a sweet, violet like floral dimension to the bright botanicals of the gin, in this case the zesty, citrusy Sipsmith.
What a curious fluke, I thought. Until it happened again. The next night, my friend and I visited Chapel Bar, a lively spot with opulent chandeliers, stark concrete walls and Victorianesque velour couches.