Sidebar Stories – In the vein of “literature is news that stays news,” Kyiv Post presents some not necessarily factual narratives that offer added insight into Ukraine’s realities.
The prices at Wunderbar, like the pothole outside, always felt like they would be there forever.
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Back in the day, before COVID-19 and Russia’s full-scale invasion, a shot of homemade tincture cost a mere 50 cents, despite the bar’s prime location just two blocks uphill from Maidan Nezalezhnosti in the very heart of Kyiv.
Whilst the pothole endured, Wunderbar’s prices eventually crept up. That is until now, with Saturday Oct. 26 marking the last day of business as the bar cements its place in history as part of life in Ukraine.
Cocktails, flames and a wrench
Like its sister bar Palata No. 6 – which closed a few weeks ago, or so I heard – Wunderbar’s vibe was always that of an underground dive bar catering to those seeking a good bargain above all else.
Both bars adopted a hospital theme, with staff dressed in scrubs. The idea came from Anton Chekhov’s novel called Ward No. 6 (“Palata No. 6” in Russian) about a mental asylum, which presumably explains the uniform.
Back in the day, both bars also had a “special cocktail” where you would put on a straitjacket and a helmet. The bartender would then set the helmet on fire, and you would be forced to down the three cocktails in front of you. Between each drink, the bartender would batter your helmet with a wrench, a beer keg, or whatever they could lay their hands on.
Dancing
The ritual reached its crescendo when the bartender sipped a mouthful of clear spirit, then pulled the helmet close and spat at the flame, creating a trail of fire across the ceiling.
Just to confirm I did not make any of this up, here’s a photo from back in the day.
Photo by Leo Chiu
Unfortunately, the special cocktail was taken off the menu about a year ago.
Stories from the bottle
I remembered celebrating my first job offer in Ukraine at the bar back in 2018 and meeting my future colleagues later that night at the same bar, unbelievably sloshed and unprepared.
That night I also met Lyosha – a young regular who used to frequent the bar on the weekends. Lyosha, clean-shaven with glasses, looked 15 at most though he maintained he was over 18. The night I met my future colleagues, Lyosha was due to celebrate his friend’s marriage the next day, and I remembered buying them a round of shots.
I wonder where they are now.
Then there were the Jägermeister-branded socks. During some of their promotions, you would get a pair of these socks if you ordered three shots of Jägermeister. Each of my friends got at least one pair that summer. I got four (might have been more).
At the same job, I also frequented the bar for dinner since my old office was nearby, so I’d have a cheap plate of pasta and a few drinks, mingling with the bartenders and regulars before slowly making my way home.
I used to complain to Vova, one of the bartenders, about a bad day at work, and he’d laugh in my face since working at an office job was nothing compared to a bartending gig at a dive bar, according to him.
In the summer of 2022, I saw Vova’s picture in a Facebook post. His mother said he died defending Mariupol in April that year.
Fare thee well
A lot changed over the years at Wunderbar. First came COVID-19, then the full-scale invasion. What was once a lively watering hole with sticky tabletops morphed into a quiet, unassuming bar with just a handful of customers.
Many of those who served as witnesses to its headier days were long gone.
On Wednesday, when a group of friends and I visited the bar to bid it farewell, three of us realized we were the only ones from the original crew remaining.
One is now my colleague, working as an editor for Kyiv Post; another friend found his niche as a video creator, focusing on content about Ukraine; and yours truly is now working as a news reporter, trying to condense six years of memories at the bar into a readable obituary.
Farewell is always hard. I just didn’t know that also applies to places.
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