Don't love a Duck

Joined: Dec 08, 2014
Posts: 16
2

I was entreated to try out the Dirty Duck because of various descriptions reassuring patrons of an "authentic British pub experience" and the like. After two visits – once around soft opening, the other after several months of soft opening – roughly got the measure of a place. Alcohol is, of course, a depressant but The Dirty Duck is one of the few bars in Beijing that acutely reminds you of that fact, and urges you to reconsider your life choices. More hospice than hostelry, the regulars seem to acknowledge this grim reality by sitting in gloomy cliques beside the entrance, talking about amateur football leagues and suchlike. It was only after I tried to order – after allowing due pause for staff to recognize they had a genuine customer – that it became clear the grim encampment out front was mostly friends of management, a pair of meatheads whose partnership was presumably sealed over a single shared braincell. Meathead One took possession of the monocellular conch and wandered over to flog the sad wares.

You see, the Dirty Duck brews its own beer but the trio of draughts on offer is more homebrew than Brewdog. There's nothing to be said against the entrepenurial spirit here – who wants more of domestic Carlsberg? – but, perhaps, charging the same price for something drawn from a bag of fermented malt bathwater as, for example, GLB's or even Slow Boat is slightly taking the piss. Or drinking it, at the very least: the Stout had the taste of chilly Nescafe and came with a free quarter-glassful of sediment. The owners, or managers – what can I say? They shouldn't be in the hositality trade. Guys? The whole customer service schtick? It's not your thing. Meathead One managed monosyllabic answers to a few cheerful questions about the bar; where they were from; what the plan was – you know, a chance to sell the fucking place to one of the few customers who doesn't appear to be a crony. But no, off he he sloped back to his friends. Didn't even offer food. (The second time, I asked about that. "Kitchen's closed," came the grunted reply. It was 8 on a Saturday. Oh, those conversations)

General decor is like someone visited a Wetherspoons firesale and grabbed whatever budget allowed. It looks tacky and, worse, new. Walls are pretty bare. Thankfully, no one has yet pinned up a "20 Reasons Why Beer is Better Than a Woman" to the bathroom wall, but the sentiment is there. Upstairs is rumored to be a lone pool table. Customers: 40 percent Brits, built like packets of Hovis with tattoos and the odd Premier League shirt to show puckish individuality. Some of these guys were extras in the classic British film "ID," most would be comfortably at home in a Thai hostess bar. The rest were Chinese who The comparisons to a British pub are, I think, unfair – it would be like comparing a sports bar to Cheers because the barman sometimes manages to remember your name ("Chad... Chuck isn't it?"). Still, I have dropped by places similar to this, mostly bricked-in to housing estates and offering all the welcome of a branded Strongbow glass to the skull. The Dirty Duck is nothing like as bad, but its name feels oddly apposite: a grubby fowl, probably best served roasted.