It’s late at night, and the city is like a child just waking up, rubbing its eyes, yet the lights are still bright. The glass door of the convenience store creaks open, and a guy in slippers walks out, holding a can of beer, with water droplets still clinging to it, like a little sprite that just sneaked out of the fridge. He looks up at the sky; the moon is hiding behind the clouds, like a shy audience member. This can of beer is not for quenching thirst, nor for showing off, but a letter he wrote to himself for tonight.
Beer, oh, it’s not just a drink. It is the messenger of the night, the emotional switch that city dwellers secretly hide in their pockets. During the day, we are dressed in suits, crammed in subways, typing on keyboards, busy like spinning tops. But at night, once the beer is opened, the hissing sound of the bubbles rising is like unlocking another version of oneself. Why do modern people love to drink beer at night? Because the night is a magnifying glass for emotions, and beer is the drop of water under that magnifying glass, refracting the colorful thoughts of the heart.
The Solo of the Convenience Store
Let’s talk about the late-night convenience store, the first stop of beer culture. At the entrance of the alleys in Beijing, beside the lanes in Shanghai, at the corners in Guangzhou, which city doesn’t have a convenience store with lights on 24 hours? Push the door open, and with a ding, the cashier lazily looks up; in the freezer lies rows of beer, domestic, imported, craft, lined up as if waiting for your inspection. You pick a can of Tsingtao, holding it in your hand, cold enough to numb your palm. After paying, standing at the door, you pull the tab, and the foam surges up like a little fountain. You take a sip, bitter with a hint of sweetness, like a little prank life plays on you.
The beer from the convenience store is a solo performance. It suits those programmers working late into the night, girls who don’t want to go home after a breakup, or night owls who just left a friend’s gathering and don’t want the night to end. They don’t speak; the beer speaks for them. That sip goes down, the throat feels cool, but the heart is warm. Some say beer is liquid bread, but I think it’s more like a liquid diary, recording those murmurs you don’t want to say out loud at night.
I have a friend named Lao Wang, a typical Beijing guy. Every time he can’t sleep, he sneaks to the 7-11 next to his home to buy a can of Yanjing beer and squats by the roadside to drink. One day I asked him, “What are you doing? Are you in love with beer?” He chuckled, “No, buddy, I’m chatting with the moon, and beer is the translator.” You see, beer is so clever; it can translate your loneliness into poetry.
The Symphony of the Corner Tavern
If the beer from the convenience store is a solo, then the beer from the corner tavern is a symphony. Pushing open the tavern door, the dim yellow light spills down, with peanuts and edamame on the wooden table, the air mixed with the aroma of grilled skewers and the malt scent of beer. Behind the bar, the owner skillfully pulls the beer tap, fresh beer flows into the glass, the foam piled high like a cream cake. The patrons are in small groups; some are discussing passionately, some are scrolling on their phones, while others stare blankly at their glasses, as if pondering some life philosophy.
Every city’s tavern has its own beer story. In Chengdu, the small taverns in Kuanzhai Alley always have skewers beside the beer glasses. You order a pitcher of ice-cold Snow Beer, sweating from the spice, and a sip of beer feels like a lifesaver. On Hengshan Road in Shanghai, the tavern is filled with artistic youth, drinking craft IPAs, discussing independent films and Haruki Murakami, the beer glasses clinking gently on the table, like applause for their dreams. By the Pearl River in Guangzhou, the night breeze blows, beer bottles clink, friends chat about housing prices and startups, their laughter livelier than the waves on the river.
The beer in the tavern is an amplifier of emotions. It makes happy people happier and sad people sadder. I remember once in Taipei, at a small bar next to the night market, I ordered a Taiwan Beer, and a slightly tipsy uncle sitting next to me struck up a conversation. He said he had just had a fight with his wife and ran out for a couple of drinks; beer made him feel less pathetic. “You know, why is beer so effective?” He raised his glass, laughing like a child. I didn’t answer, just clinked my glass with his, because I knew beer understands.
The Secret Ritual of Night Runners
Beer doesn’t just belong to convenience stores and taverns; it has also secretly made its way into the pockets of night runners. Don’t be surprised; there really is a group of people in the city who, after running ten kilometers, stop panting and pull a can of beer from their backpacks, gulping it down. In Beijing’s Olympic Forest Park, Shanghai’s Bund, and by West Lake in Hangzhou, night runners award themselves with beer.
I have a running buddy named Xiao Li; running is his way of relieving stress, and beer is his trophy. After every run, he sits by the roadside, opens a can of Harbin beer, drinks slowly, and enjoys the night view. He says, “Running makes me sweat, and beer makes me feel alive.” It sounds mystical, but when you think about it, it really is true. The beer after a night run is like saying to the body and soul, “You’ve worked hard; take a break.”
This way of drinking beer is unique to the urban night runners. They don’t like the noisy taverns, nor do they disdain the loneliness of convenience stores; they earn their right to beer through sweat. In their hands, beer is not a drink; it’s a medal.
Beer, the Universal Translator of the Night
Have you noticed that beer has a kind of magic at night? It can turn silence into stories and strangers into friends. In a izakaya in Tokyo, two backpackers who don’t speak Japanese chat animatedly with locals over a few bottles of Asahi beer; at a night market in Bangkok, tables piled with beer bottles see tourists and vendors singing off-key together; in a pub in London, fans raise their beers, hooting until their throats are hoarse after a goal.
Beer is the universal translator of the night. It doesn’t care where you come from, what job you do, or whether you’re happy or sad. It only cares about letting you drop your guard and exhale that breath from your heart. I have an American friend named Mike; every time he comes to China on business, he insists on taking me out for beer. He says, “Chinese beer is cheap and good; it’s more effective than a psychologist.” I laugh at his exaggeration, but he says seriously, “Really, beer makes me feel like the world isn’t so chaotic.”
The Beer Map of the City
Every city has its own beer map. Beijing’s beer is straightforward and bold; in the bar street of Sanlitun, they drink Tsingtao and Yanjing, paired with grilled wings and hot pot, chatting about old stories in the alleys. Shanghai’s beer is refined and sophisticated; in craft beer bars, they drink Goose Island and Boxing Cat, paired with oysters and cheese platters, discussing art exhibitions and blockchain. Chongqing’s beer is spicy and thrilling; at the hot pot stalls by the river, mountain city beer pairs with tripe, each sip spicy, making the night sway along.
And the beer scenes in those small cities have their own flavors too. In Qingdao, at street stalls, plastic stools creak, and beer glasses are raised higher than sea level. In Dali, at a small bar by Erhai Lake, sipping beer while watching the stars blink feels like falling in love with the night. In Harbin, in the snowy winter, Harbin beer frosts over, and a sip warms you like hugging a stove.
Beer is the business card of the city and the password of the night. It adds a touch of humanity to every city’s night. No matter which city you’re in, which beer you’re drinking, whether you’re with old friends or strangers, beer is not picky; it just accompanies you, turning the emotions of the night into stories.
Whispers of Beer
As the night deepens, the beer can is empty, and the glass is at the bottom. You sit by the street or lean in the corner of the tavern, listening to the city’s breath. The beer churns in your stomach, as if whispering to you: “Hey, don’t rush; tomorrow is a new day.”
Beer is not just a drink; it is a letter written to the night. The letter has no flowery words, only the truest words: if you’re tired, rest; if you’re sad, cry; if you’re happy, laugh. It has accompanied you to see the city lights, listen to friends’ complaints, and smell the night breeze. It doesn’t solve your problems, but it gives you the courage to face them.
Next time you go out late at night, whether you push open the door of a convenience store or walk into the light of a tavern, don’t forget to order a beer. Hold it, take a sip, and let it talk to the night for you. Perhaps the moon will reply to you with a letter, hidden in the foam, waiting for you to read.