Old Bailey Street is paved on a steep incline that angles off Hollywood Road beside the outmoded Victoria Prison Compound. It's not a well-lit street and, at night, climbing the hill alongside the ominous old prison, one can almost see the flicker of gas lamps and hear horseshoes plodding on cobblestone.
There is an unassuming lounge bar halfway up Old Bailey Street, crammed between two small buildings. A jazz band plays there occasionally. It looks neither hip nor spacious, yet very much like the ideal hideaway for a world-weary office drudge.
On the day I discovered it, I was flush with the sensation of having finally found the perfect dive. I ducked in and claimed one of the few seats at the bar. Seated there, I felt I should act the stoic loner type who could pierce to the heart of the moment with a few carefully chosen remarks. But the owner did not speak my native tongue. So instead I had to play the clumsy foreigner type, meandering painfully towards a point that became ever harder to discern. Finally, I could do no more than relinquish the moment to a silence that was, alas, more communicative than me. But still, it felt good to be there - a sanctuary from the daily grind that's always there when you need it.
Since my move to Hong Kong, I have trekked through the trendy districts far and wide in search of the perfect dive. To be deemed perfect, a dive must have a comfortable bar area: somewhere you can rest your elbows and listen while the bartender skilfully unknots the tangled, twisted thoughts that have muddled your weary head.
The bartenders in perfect dives are always subtle and full of insights. They even know, as if by intuition, when to 'keep 'em comin'' and when, in turn, to wake you with a friendly tap and suggest (gently) that it's time to head home. They'll even call you a cab just to be sure you get home safely. A place like that really is a must-have for anyone who hopes to survive the chaotic tumble of big-city life.
The perfect dive does not necessarily require the dispensing of alcohol. In the TV show Becker, the perfect dive happens to be a diner. The sympathetic owner is a girl named Reggie (Terry Farrell), who eases Dr John Becker (Ted Danson) through the rougher passes of life. Without her, Becker would probably have jumped off a bridge by now, or maybe set fire to something on a particularly dark night...
One of my favourite oil paintings, Nighthawks (1942) by Edward Hopper, features a perfect dive. I'm sure you know the painting: it's mercilessly reproduced, especially popular in coffee shops and bookstores. Starbucks even printed it on a mug.