Inside Cape Town’s Hidden Speakeasy

We can’t say much about where this speakeasy is — that’s part of the code — but we can say that we found it. We had received a mysterious text on Whatsapp earlier in the day, including Charlies strict rules. Even for two reasonably seasoned urban wanderers, the entrance tested our confidence.

A man stood on the pavement, the kind you’re not entirely sure you’re supposed to approach. Nina, braver than me in these moments, asked if he knew where the bar was.

“The bar?” he said. “Which bar?”

Just then, across the street, I spotted a name — The Art of Duplicity. It felt like a clue. But the man didn’t want us crossing over. Instead, he suddenly shouted my name — which was unsettling, to put it mildly. How could he possibly know?

“Do you have the password?” he asked.

I did. And with that, the whole machinery clicked into place. He heaved open an enormous metal door and ushered us inside. The corridor was narrow and dim, lined with clotheslines hung low enough for lingerie to brush against our hair. He assured us it was all for atmosphere. Nina offered, dryly, to contribute a pair if they were ever short on props. He laughed — loud and unfiltered — but didn’t take her up on it.

He led us through a restaurant, through a bathroom, and finally to a thick wooden door. He struck it with a wooden cane — and then vanished, leaving us alone.

A small hatch slid open. A stern pair of eyes appeared.

“The password?”

I said it. The door opened. The stern face melted into a warm smile, and we were escorted into the bar.

And suddenly there we were — in a speakeasy in Cape Town, sometime past midnight, stepping into a world that felt stitched together from jazz-age glamour and industrial theatre.

With great spots at the bar, we had front-row seats as our bartender turned mixology into performance art. He stirred one drink with a steady, almost meditative hand while shaking another with the other — effortless, precise, completely in control. Every pour, flame, and flourish felt like part of a quiet, confident show, and we were close enough to feel the pulse of it.

Nina ordered a Smoking on the Back of a Horse with No Name. I went for something called Something Fishy. Both were strong, complex, the sort of drinks made for slow sipping. And so we sipped, letting the room wrap around us: the low light, the soft chairs, the quiet buzz of people who knew they were somewhere special.

It’s not the kind of experience everyone stumbles into. But we were lucky — and we knew it. And that’s really all there is to say about that night.