It’s not easy leading a double life.
You’re constantly contending with femme fatales. Double crosses. Triple crosses. And the risk of misplacing your fedora.
But at least now you can close the case on one long-running mystery.
Where to find a proper nightcap.
Welcome to Mister H, a ’30s-style Shanghai speakeasy—run by a Bungalow 8 and Socialista vet—that caters to dangerous dames, hard-boiled detectives and one professional go-go dancer, soft-open now in the Mondrian SoHo.
Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, this would be the one Bogart would’ve gone to for his midnight gimlet. A red-light district/opium den with walls of distressed damask, floors of checkered jade and gold, taxidermied birds and (despite what the expertly staffed stripper pole would imply) a bright-red neon sign reminding patrons that this is not a brothel.
Order a cocktail, head through a curtain of chains and enter into a back room with crimson velour beds, antique mirrors and a red phone perched at each bedside. The phones connect randomly to other beds, so should you find yourself making eyes with a raven-haired hellcat from across the room, just pick up your receiver and hope it’s her.
If not, say hi to Bill.
You’re constantly contending with femme fatales. Double crosses. Triple crosses. And the risk of misplacing your fedora.
But at least now you can close the case on one long-running mystery.
Where to find a proper nightcap.
Welcome to Mister H, a ’30s-style Shanghai speakeasy—run by a Bungalow 8 and Socialista vet—that caters to dangerous dames, hard-boiled detectives and one professional go-go dancer, soft-open now in the Mondrian SoHo.
Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, this would be the one Bogart would’ve gone to for his midnight gimlet. A red-light district/opium den with walls of distressed damask, floors of checkered jade and gold, taxidermied birds and (despite what the expertly staffed stripper pole would imply) a bright-red neon sign reminding patrons that this is not a brothel.
Order a cocktail, head through a curtain of chains and enter into a back room with crimson velour beds, antique mirrors and a red phone perched at each bedside. The phones connect randomly to other beds, so should you find yourself making eyes with a raven-haired hellcat from across the room, just pick up your receiver and hope it’s her.
If not, say hi to Bill.
