‘Wear black, look bored’: inside one Tatler editor’s meticulously executed journey to the most famous techno club in the … – Tatler
Berghain is a far cry from Chiltern Firehouse: there are no tables of Dom Perignon and no VIP-treatment, which means spots on the guestlist are near-impossible (unless you’re truly enmeshed in the world of techno). It’s all down to ‘the vibe’ you give off in the queue, and whether the bouncers (like Sven Marquardt, who is a bona fide rockstar in his own right) approve. With no PR guru in sight to get me through the door, I have to try my luck just like everyone else…
How to crack the code? Is Berghain the sphinx? I consult my well-connected music friends who have impressed the bouncers before. ‘Wear black. Look bored. Know the DJs who are playing,’ says one. ‘They hate English people. Whatever you do: don’t say a word. Don’t even smile,’ says another. Timing, it seems, is crucial: ‘You need to go at 6am on a Sunday morning. That way, there’s hardly any queue and less competition.’ Others were more black and white: ‘Be gay. Or be fashion’, says one techno fiend. Fashion? OK. I can do fashion. I pack my Jean Paul Gautier – a black mesh crop top with long sleeves and printed roses – and board my flight to Berlin.
Giorgio (my boyfriend) and I check into Wilmina, a sleek hotel in West Berlin, Charlottenburg, which has an intriguing history: formerly a women’s prison, this sprawling red-bricked building has been refurbished with a contemporary, trendy look. (Only in Berlin). I am shown to my room (a former cell but with softer lighting) and start getting ready. I slick back my hair, and put on minimal makeup: a smudge of smokey eye and a hint of blusher. After all, I don’t want to look like I am trying too hard. (It’s not as if I flew all the way to Berlin for this). Next I slip into my Jean Paul Gautier top, a pair of leather trousers, and a pair of black platform Doc Martens. I complete the look with an oversized leather jacket that fittingly – according to my mother – makes me ‘look like a German prison officer’. Perfect.
First stop is dinner at Borschart: the trendy restaurant in Mitte owned by Roland Mary: Berlin’s answer to Robin Birley. There’s a cool, cosmopolitan crowd, where coiffed German ladies catch up over dirty martinis in red velvet banquettes. Over plates of pasta with fillet of beef, and glasses of red wine, Giorgio and I survey the room for other Berghain hopefuls. We spot them immediately, murmuring over steaks: two hefty men – both around 6ft 5 – with skinheads, thick black eyeliner and black-and-white chequered scarves. They walk with an assured swagger, their clumpy Doc Martens thudding on the tiled floor. It looks like they were born to gain entry into Berghain. I take note: walk with gravitas.
