First as a wide-eyed teenager trying to get past the bouncers who usually did a body-scan with their reptilian eyes before letting anyone in to... drop. Easily one of the smallest piece of real estate that has hosted some of the most glamorous people on earth. Kate Moss, Gwyneth Paltrow, Sting, The Black Eyed Peas. Obviously, powered by my own steam, I'm certainly not cool enough. Propelled by a weekly column in South China Morning Post however, suddenly a few doors opened. Albeit reluctantly. To be fair, to the "door bitch", I don't fit a welcoming profile; I look like I only nurse a Diet Coke, wear a wardrobe of a disgruntled accountant, and will clumsily report on the night's activities in a column, searching for a punchline.
Then as a twenty-something, chasing the loudest bass in the city when drop ruled the underground, and a dear friend was passing us freebies behind the bar, my crew and I were there a bit more. When your friend Dj'd at some ungodly hour (Ellul! Tom Price!!), you tried a bit more to be there at 2:00am... drop had some serious beats.
Later, older, wiser (well... debatable), nursing expensive vodkas at Quality Goods [what drop morphed into under new management] while pretending I still belonged there at midnight as I grew older and the crowd looked younger... Every era left its fingerprints on those black steps. Cigarette burns, spilled champagne, the ghost of someone’s first kiss pressed against the wall, the faint odor of a wretched retch after a spicy vodka shot, hook ups and break ups have all occurred along that narrow alleyway.
The address never changed; only the name etched on the door did.
Tonight the name is Yume.夢. Dream.
And for once the word doesn’t feel like marketing fluff. It feels like a dare. A promise. An occasion. You descend at 6 p.m, and the city’s noise dissolves the moment the door seals behind you. Still has that tricky staircase (and yes, I tripped and fell on my first visit).
The lighting is low, deliberate—like someone turned the saturation down on real life. Japanese cedar somewhere, faint incense, the quiet clink of hand-cut ice. This is not the Hong Kong that screams. This is the one that whispers, “Stay a while.” There's a Miami-Vice colour schemed wall that's an 80s throwback that not a single influencer by the bar, got the reference to.
The bar is the altar. Behind it, magicians in crisp white jackets move like they’ve done this in another lifetime. The opening menu is called Dream Is Destiny—yes, a little dramatic, but when the first drink lands in front of you, you forgive the theatrics. It Was All a Dream: dark rum, rye, coconut, pineapple, served in a porcelain coconut shell because why the hell not. One sip and you’re barefoot on a beach you never actually visited, but swear you remember. Ukiyo: Nikka Days whisky rinsed in sesame-fat-washed Oloroso. Silky, nutty, borderline obscene. You close your eyes and taste Tokyo at 2 a.m. in a bar with no sign.
Tickled like a teen, you smirk at the name; F.YU: gin, soju, shiso, cantaloupe. Bright, green, dangerous—like summer flirting with you after three martinis. Kiss of a Geisha: bourbon washed with shiitake, coffee liqueur, bitters. Earth and caffeine and regret in the best way. There’s an origami cootie-catcher on every table. Open the flaps, follow the instructions, let the bartender surprise you.
Jejune? Absolutely. Perfect? Also absolutely. The room changes with the hour. 7 p.m.: soft jazz, conversations you can actually hear. 10 p.m.: the lights bleed violet, the bass wakes up, the Tokyo influence sharpens its edges. By midnight the Japanese shōji screens glow crimson and the space feels like the inside of someone else’s lucid dream.
Food arrives in waves you want to ride forever. Tuna tartare wearing a crown of Oscietra caviar. Iberico katsu sando so good it should be illegal. Wagyu sliders that make you believe in a higher power. Japanese curry empanadas that taste like homes you never had.
This is not another “Japanese-inspired” knockoff. This is the real conversation between Tokyo’s precision and Hong Kong’s chaos, translated into a room that knows exactly who it is. The crowd is the city in cross-section: finance bros loosening their Hermès ties, artists in vintage Comme des Garçons, expat models, local kids who grew up on this staircase, tourists who stumbled in thinking it was just another bar and leave three hours later texting their friends “I think I just fell in love with Hong Kong again.” Those who call it Home Kong are spanked as they leave.
Yume understands something the old clubs sometimes forgot: we don’t always want to lose ourselves in strobe lights and bottle parades anymore. Sometimes we just want a perfect drink, a corner sofa, and the feeling that time has politely agreed to pause.
Yet when the night decides it’s ready to roar, Yume roars with it. The playlist deepens, the lights pulse harder, and suddenly you’re dancing with a stranger who feels like an old friend.
Same basement. New dream. And for the first time in years, I left at a respectable hour… then came straight back the next night. Because some dreams, m'luv, you don’t want to wake up from.
Images courtesy of Noor.
Yume
38–44 D’Aguilar Street, Basement
Open from 6 p.m. until the city forgives you
Dress code: Come as your favourite version of yourself
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