Letting the outside in

Day

The first time I visited Bar Termini it was late afternoon in the summer, so the sun was high in the sky. Soho was bustling with people clocking off work and tourists looking for a pre-theatre meal. There’s no place else in London packed with so many trendy restaurants and bars, all decked with neon signs on the windows and flowered shopfronts. 

Bar Termini is a bit more modest in appearance. For starters, it’s literally tiny. It’s about half the size of a classroom, cut such that the windows dominate the space, and seats only 25 with elbows touching. They have this classic black-and-white checkered tile on the floor, with dark wood finishings and marble counters. Very European-meets-American-diner.

The door stays open too, so the street noise and daylight flows in and mingles with the old Italian classics they play on their speakers. 

There’s no place inside the venue to stand and wait. You peer in from the sidewalk until one of the lovely people in their ironed whites comes over. Every seat was taken when we arrived, and I was feeling a little shy and thought I shouldn’t bother them. My partner urged me to stay and wait.

Lo and behold, when our server noticed us, he greeted us like friends, and pointed out a standing table just inches from the open door. I should say it was actually a narrow shelf facing the brick wall. I was thrilled. 

We ordered quickly and received our drinks quickly – a Garibaldi and a Negroni. Bright orange and ruby red. Beautiful in the sunlight.

We could hear the chatter from our neighbours inside, their pauses and laughter. Outside, the passing conversations of people bustling about, their footsteps, the ubiquitous ambulance sirens. Yet it felt calm, like we had ducked in for a bit of shelter and a recharge, but remained anchored still in the world, in this space and time. Life was passing by outside, and we could filter back out at any time, but only when we were ready.

---

A lot of cocktail bars adopt a different approach. They like to block out the outdoors entirely, suspend you in their own world with their own clock. There are a whole class of bars called speakeasies, paying homage to the illicit bars of the Prohibition era circa 1920s, that operate in the style of secrecy and hiding away. A place where you can escape the depressing realities of life. Not much different in the 2020s.

And while many other cocktail bars today don’t use this theme, they still want to transport their guests somewhere else – to a jazz bar in the 60s, a tropical paradise, a gilded ballroom. Many of them don’t have windows. Almost all close their doors, shutting themselves off from the outside.

---

Night

I went a second time to Bar Termini on a different day, alone, after having met a friend for dinner. This time it was about 10pm, the moon having its turn in the sky, the streets illuminated by the warm light bursting out of restaurant windows. Pubs were overflowing with people drinking pints on the streets. I weaved through packs of yuppies and clubgoers, squinting my eyes to find a sign in the distance. Eventually I saw it, this simple, bold T, a lot quieter than the flourished signages of its neighbours. 

I was struck by the dimness of the bar. Guest’s faces were lit by the candles the tables and a few dim hanging bulbs. Quiet jazz was playing. It was instant calm. There were seats available – thank goodness. I’d seen some insane queues outside.

They put me up at the corner of the bar, and my phone was about to die, so I forced myself to put it away. I found myself staring out the window, watching the street. 

Did you know that during takeoff and landing at night, the plane turns down the lights to make sure your eyes acclimatise to the night outside? That way if they need to make an emergency landing, you’re not found suddenly scrambling in the dark.

The bar wasn’t trying to compete with the night, as many other stores opted to do. It was letting the night’s song in, as it had let the day’s just hours before. 

I asked for a light digestif, and the bartender made me a lovely Adonis – deep red again, but with a warmer hue. A table of two was ordering Espresso Martinis in perpetuity, and the bartender, pausing after the drinks had been served, set an espresso cup in front of me with the shaker’s little bit more. They kept me company in the quietness, the staff rolling off each other in Italian, pointing a question in my direction on occasion.

One bartender who had a matronly demeanour leaned over the bar by my side and rolled her eyes. “People think they can just ask for 5 minutes and then it becomes 10, 20,” she said, and I nodded understandingly. “Last order is last order.”

I slipped out after my second drink. Amidst all the cheers and yells of the drunkards outside my head was comfortably quiet.