I’ve spent the better part of twenty-odd years moving through this industry in various guises. Running bars in cities I could barely pronounce, working in Marketing for Michelin-starred restaurants where the pressure could crack you in half, managing beverage programmes in five-star hotels where a single complaint about the wine list could derail your entire week. Somewhere between the warehouse parties and the early morning flights, between the DJ booth and the bar top, I developed what you might call an educated (my friends my call it something else) appreciation for a well-made drink in a properly run establishment.
Here’s the thing nobody tells you about life on the road: you cannot always be raving. As much as I love a 5 AM finish in some basement in Berlin or a sunrise set on a beach on the Black Sea, there are nights when what you actually need is a proper bar, a decent seat, and a bartender who knows the difference between shaking and stirring. Sometimes the best part of the night isn’t the peak-time madness, it’s the quiet hour before or after, nursing a whiskey sour whilst your ears stop ringing and you remember why you do this in the first place. I’ve sacrificed my liver over the years so you don’t have to guess which cities are worth your time and money. These aren’t theoretical recommendations or places I’ve read about in some glossy magazine. These are bars I’ve actually sat in, drinks I’ve actually consumed, conversations I’ve actually had with bartenders who’ve seen enough of the world to have perspective on their craft.
But here’s the important bit: The World’s 50 Best Bars 2025 list theworlds50best exists for a reason. Use it. These rankings change, new places emerge, old favourites evolve or disappear entirely. What I’m offering you is context, the cities behind the bars, the reasons these places matter beyond what’s in the glass. The list gives you coordinates, I’m giving you the map.
Four Tet Releases Alexandra Palace 2025 Set on Apple Music
New Trentemรธller album is comingYour journey will be different from mine. It should be. The whole point of travel is discovering what speaks to you specifically, not replicating someone else’s itinerary. But if two decades of bar stools and boarding passes have taught me anything, it’s that certain cities understand hospitality in ways that others simply don’t. And sometimes, after you’ve danced until your feet hurt and shouted over sound systems until your voice is gone, what you really need is a well-made cocktail and a place that respects the ritual of service.
Let me tell you about the cities that got it right.
Hong Kong
The first time I arrived in Hong Kong, I made the mistake of booking a hotel in Kowloon because it was cheaper (ok, I lied, I staggered off a plane, left my passport on the plane and now was stuck in Hong Kong, figured I should just party on). This meant taking the Star Ferry across the harbour every night, which sounds romantic until you’re doing it at 4 AM in a tropical rainstorm, half-cut and trying to remember which exit gets you closest to your hotel. But that’s Hong Kong. It punishes lazy planning and rewards those who figure out its rhythms.
Bar Leone sits at number one globally theworlds50best, and if you’ve been, you understand why. If you haven’t, you’re probably thinking it’s just another overhyped cocktail bar with pretty drinks and Instagram lighting. You’d be wrong. The bartenders here treat their craft with the seriousness of sushi chefs, and the drinks have that rare quality of being both technically brilliant and actually enjoyable to consume.
Coa, at number 38 theworlds50best, is where I learnt that agave spirits are an entire universe I’d been ignorantly ignoring. The mezcal selection will humble you if you think you know your spirits. Trust me, you don’t. What makes Hong Kong’s bar scene work is that it exists within a city that never quite stops moving. Seven million people crammed into high-rises, where your neighbour’s kitchen window is close enough to borrow sugar without leaving your flat. You need bars as pressure-release valves, little pockets of sanity where the city’s manic energy gets converted into something approaching zen.
You haven’t truly experienced breakfast until you’ve stood in a cha chaan teng at 7 AM, surrounded by office workers shouting orders in rapid Cantonese, drinking milk tea that’s basically diesel fuel with dairy, eating a pineapple bun with a slab of butter that would horrify a cardiologist. This is Hong Kong’s working-class fuel, and it’s glorious.
Tim Ho Wan is the Michelin-starred dim sum spot where tourists queue for an hour and locals know to come at odd times. The BBQ pork buns are legitimately worth the wait. I once ate six. Regretted nothing. By night, Yardbird in Sheung Wan serves yakitori that makes you question every chicken skewer you’ve ever had. Or you can abandon all pretence of sophistication and point at random dishes at a dai pai dong in Sham Shui Po. I’ve had some of my best meals this way, though I couldn’t tell you what I ate if my life depended on it.
Lan Kwai Fong is where everyone ends up eventually. It’s a narrow street that becomes a river of humans after 10 PM, all drinking and smoking and spilling out of bars onto the pavement. Yes, it’s full of finance wankers. Yes, it’s touristy. But there’s something democratically messy about it that I respect. Everyone’s equally dishevelled by 2 AM. If you want something with actual musical taste, you’ll need to know someone. The good parties in Hong Kong don’t advertise. They happen in industrial buildings in Kwun Tong or temporary spaces that exist until the landlord notices. This has been true since I first visited in the early 2000s, and I suspect it’ll be true long after I’m too old to care.
Mexico City
Here’s a confession: Mexico City remains on my bucket list. I know, I know. It’s criminal. I’ve had three separate trips fall through over the years, the usual missed flights, shady promoters who disappeared with deposits, life generally getting in the way. My fault, really. Kinda. But I’ve heard enough stories from bartenders and DJs who’ve done the circuit to know what I’m missing. Mexico City sits at 2,250 metres above sea level, which apparently means your first night involves terrible decisions followed by a splitting headache that you’ll initially blame on the altitude before admitting was definitely the tequila. Or both. Probably both.
The city sprawls in every direction like someone knocked over an urban planning model and decided to just build it that way anyway. Pre-Hispanic pyramids next to Spanish colonial churches next to brutalist government buildings next to shiny corporate towers. It shouldn’t work. Somehow it does. Handshake Speakeasy at number 2 theworlds50best operates behind a taco shop, which sounds like a gimmick until you realise that in Mexico City, the line between street food and high art is essentially non-existent. Every bartender I know who’s been there comes back evangelical about the mezcal scene, about regional production methods and agave varieties they’d never encountered.
Street tacos in Roma Norte around 1 AM are apparently a religious experience, according to every single person who’s been. The al pastor, cooked on a vertical spit with a pineapple on top, because Mexico understands that pork and pineapple is a god-tier combination will supposedly ruin you for tacos anywhere else. Pujol has a corn mole that’s been cooking for over 2,000 days. This is not a typo. They’ve kept this thing going for years, adding to it, evolving it, and from what I understand, it tastes like someone distilled Mexican culinary history into a single spoonful. Mercado de San Juan apparently sells ingredients you didn’t know were food. Escamoles (ant larvae), chapulines (grasshoppers), and various other things that sound alarming but taste incredible when prepared by someone who knows what they’re doing. I need to experience this firsthand.
Mexico City doesn’t really start until after 2 AM, which is something I keep being told. M.N. Roy in Juรกrez is meant to be small, sweaty, and curated by people who genuinely love music rather than DJs trying to build their brand. Caradura is where you go when you need proper techno. Patrick Miller in Condesa has been running since the ’70s and serves pure Mexican disco energy. Everyone dances. The uncool uncle, the fashion student, the couple who’ve been married forty years. Nobody’s too cool for disco in Mexico City.
This city is happening. I will get there. Eventually. When promoters stop being shady and I actually make my flights.
Barcelona
Barcelona has that Mediterranean light that makes everything look better. Even hangovers seem romantic when you’re squinting at them through that golden afternoon glow whilst drinking vermouth at a sidewalk cafรฉ.
I played La Terrazza in 2014 with Bootleg Social Records, an epic headline set that I remember in fragments and feelings rather than actual events. I vaguely recall walking out of there as the sun was properly up, convinced I’d just had one of those perfect nights. I probably had (I don’t think I did). The details are lost to time and whatever I was drinking. The city holds both Sips at number 3 and Paradiso at number 4 theworlds50best, which is impressive until you realise that Barcelona has spent the last fifteen years quietly becoming one of the world’s cocktail capitals whilst everyone was distracted by the Gaudรญ buildings and football.
Paradiso hides behind a pastrami shop. You open a refrigerator door and walk into a gorgeous bar that feels like it was designed by someone who understood that theatre enhances experience when the substance backs it up. The drinks are excellent. The entrance gimmick is fun exactly once, then it’s just a door. Sips does omakase-style cocktails where you surrender control and trust the bartender to take you somewhere. I’m generally terrible at surrendering control, but I made an exception and had one of the best drinking experiences of my life. Sometimes trust pays off.
Cal Pep in El Born is chaos. You’re standing at a bar, pressed against strangers, everyone reaching across everyone for plates of seafood that keep appearing in rapid succession. The staff shout in Catalan, you point at things, magic happens. This is tapas culture at its most honest and slightly aggressive.
Bar Mut in Eixample is more civilised but equally good. Classic Catalan preparations executed with precision and without fuss. Their jamรณn ibรฉrico could probably solve minor international conflicts if we served it at peace negotiations. Can Culleretes has been open since 1786. Think about that. This restaurant survived the Napoleonic Wars, multiple Spanish civil wars, Franco’s dictatorship, and the introduction of nouvelle cuisine. They’re clearly doing something right. The food is unfashionable and deeply satisfying.
La Terrazza sits on top of Poble Espanyol, this open-air venue where you dance under the stars with views across Barcelona. I played there in what I’m fairly certain was 2014, though honestly, the timeline gets fuzzy. What I remember is the energy, that particular Mediterranean vibe where the party doesn’t feel rushed because the night is warm and nobody has work tomorrow anyway.
Razzmatazz is massive, multi-roomed, and gloriously confused about its identity. One room plays indie rock, another plays techno, another plays reggaeton. You wander between them like you’re channel-surfing but with your feet. It works. INPUT is for serious techno people who take their techno seriously. No photos, just dancing and a sound system that could probably move tectonic plates. Sala Apolo does “Nasty Mondays” which is exactly as fun as it sounds and has been running for over a decade, proving that sometimes a good party needs no reinvention.
The beach clubs exist for people (Tourists) who want to drink cocktails whilst looking at the Mediterranean. This is fine. Not everything needs to be underground and gritty.
London
Ah, London. My hometown (actually, I’m from Sydney, but spent 20 years in London, so I figured I’m a local enough). My love. My ongoing complicated relationship that vacillates between deep affection and the kind of frustration that makes you want to move to the countryside and raise chickens.
London will drain your bank account faster than any city in Europe, possibly the world. Your hotel costs more than it should, a pint is pushing ten quid, and a decent meal out can easily run fifty before you’ve even looked at wine. The weather is reliably disappointing. The tubes are packed. The rent is obscene. The locals are knackered and running on fumes and overpriced coffee.
And yet. Fuck me, what a place to kick on and find a bar.
Londoners have figured out how to have a good time despite the city’s best efforts to bankrupt them, and that resilience breeds a particular kind of warmth. Once you break through the initial reserve, you’ll find some of the most genuinely welcoming people you’ll ever drink with.
Tayฤr + Elementary at number 5 theworlds50best split their space between a walk-in bar and a reservation-only experimental section where they use centrifuges and rotary evaporators like they’re auditioning for a chemistry show. The drinks are genuinely interesting rather than just technically wanky, which is harder to achieve than you’d think. Connaught Bar at number 6 theworlds50best is old-school luxury in Mayfair where a martini costs what a reasonable person might spend on dinner. But the service is so good you almost don’t resent it. Almost.
If you find yourself in Belgravia, head to Boisdale. Yes, it looks like a traditional establishment. Yes, it’s a bit buttoned-up from the front. But here’s the secret: order a Negroni at the back bar. You’ll find a whole new world tucked away, a space that transforms from stuffy to sublime, where the jazz is live and the drinks are some of the best in London. The Negronis here are perfect. Not good, not great, I’d say perfect. The kind that make you reassess every Negroni you’ve had before (I suggest the White Negroni)
The real London bar scene lives in small places tucked down Soho side streets. Twelve seats, a bartender who remembers your name by visit two, drinks made with actual care rather than performative flair. These places don’t make the global lists but they’re where the city’s soul actually lives. British food has spent decades recovering from a terrible reputation, and places like St. John in Clerkenwell are why. Nose-to-tail cooking executed with precision but without the pretension. The bone marrow and parsley salad is simple enough that there’s nowhere to hide if you fuck it up. They don’t fuck it up.
Dishoom does Indian food through a British lens, which sounds like it should be terrible but somehow works. The bacon naan at breakfast is one of those fusion dishes that makes complete sense once you’ve tried it. The best food often happens in unglamorous spots. Vietnamese in Shoreditch, Turkish in Dalston, Polish in Hammersmith. London’s immigrant communities built the food scene that actually matters.
Fabric in Farringdon has been raided, shut down, and fought back to life more times than I can count. It’s an institution that refuses to die, three rooms with sound systems that’ll rearrange your internal organs. Ministry of Sound is more commercial these days but still functional if you adjust expectations. The real scene lives in smaller venues where bookings matter more than capacity. You might catch someone on their way up or see a legend playing to 200 people because they wanted an intimate night. Shoreditch and Dalston still have spaces, though developers keep trying to turn them into luxury flats.
The night extends as long as your wallet and stamina allow. That’s London’s way. That’s always been London’s way. And despite everything, I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Milan
Milan doesn’t waste your time pretending to be romantic. It’s Italy’s economic engine, a working city where trains actually run on schedule and things generally function with northern European efficiency. Some people find this disappointing. I find it refreshing.
Moebius Milano at number 7 theworlds50best does Japanese-Italian fusion, which could be a disaster but instead works because both cultures share an obsessive attention to detail. The drinks are beautiful without sacrificing drinkability. This is harder than it looks. Aperitivo here isn’t happy hour, it’s a civilised pause in the day where you drink something bitter, eat small plates, and remember that productivity isn’t the only metric for a life well-lived. The Milanese have figured out that rest is productive. The rest of us are still learning. Luini serves panzerotti, fried half-moons stuffed with mozzarella and tomato. Locals queue daily. Tourists walk past looking for something more Instagram-worthy. Their loss.
Trattoria Masuelli San Marco has been doing osso buco and risotto alla Milanese the same way for generations. Zero innovation, maximum execution. Sometimes tradition exists because it works. Pasticceria Marchesi is where proper Milanese go for pastries and coffee in a space that hasn’t changed much since the 1800s. The cornetti are worth the price, which is saying something in this city. Plastic has been operating as a queer club since the ’80s. Italian disco, mixed crowd, positive energy. It’s survived because it remembered what it was meant to be whilst everything around it changed. The upscale clubs like Hollywood and Armani Privรฉ cater to fashion industry people who care about being seen. If that’s your scene, brilliant. If not, there are smaller places where the music actually matters.
Athens
Athens doesn’t make sense economically or politically, yet somehow the city persists. And within that persistence, culture flourishes in unexpected ways, like weeds growing through concrete that turn out to be flowers. Line at number 8 theworlds50best represents Athens’ cocktail evolution. Greek bartenders taking indigenous ingredients like Mastiha liqueur and integrating them into contemporary drinks without making them feel like museum pieces. It’s a tricky balance. They pull it off.
The summer heat makes movement feel like punishment. Everyone knows this. Nobody leaves. That should tell you something about the city’s pull. Diporto in Monastiraki is an unmarked basement where you eat whatever they’re cooking. No menu, no choices. You trust or you leave. I’ve never regretted trusting.
Funky Gourmet has Michelin stars for modernist Greek cuisine, all foams and sous vide and deconstructed things. It’s intellectually interesting and technically brilliant. Whether you prefer this to simple grilled fish by the sea is philosophical territory I’m not qualified to navigate. Kostas does souvlaki. If they can’t get the basics right, everything else is suspect. They get the basics very right.
Six D.O.G.S. is an art space slash club where programming varies wildly. Some nights are experimental electronica, some nights are straightforward house. All nights involve outdoor spaces where people actually talk between sets, which feels increasingly rare.
Summer migrates the whole scene to beach clubs in Glyfada. Dancing in sand as dawn breaks over the Aegean. This is not metaphor, this is Tuesday. Bouzoukia clubs are uniquely Greek. Live music, plate smashing, organised chaos. Cultural context helps but isn’t strictly necessary to enjoy the spectacle.
Singapore
Singapore is what happens when you run a city like a very efficient corporation. Everything works. Everything is clean. The metro makes sense. Some people find this sterile. Others find it deeply comforting. Both reactions are valid.
Jigger & Pony at number 9 theworlds50best exemplifies Singaporean excellence: technically flawless, aesthetically considered, executed with precision. The drinks are very, very good. Whether very good is enough depends entirely on what you’re seeking from your night out. Hawker centres are Singapore’s great equaliser. Michelin-starred chicken rice for three dollars next to laksa perfected over decades. Maxwell Food Centre, Lau Pa Sat, Tekka Centre. These aren’t tourist attractions, they’re where actual humans eat daily.
Burnt Ends does Australian barbecue with tropical ingredients. Odette has three Michelin stars for French cuisine with Asian sensibility. Both are excellent. Both are expensive. The hawker centres remain superior value. Zouk has been running since the ’90s, which in club years is approximately 400 human years. Solid bookings, proper sound, people still show up. Ce La Vi offers rooftop clubbing with views for people who prioritise views.
The regulatory environment means the scene operates within defined boundaries. You’ll never find an unlicensed warehouse rave because those don’t exist here. Whether this is limiting or reassuring depends on your personality.
Buenos Aires
Buenos Aires feels European until you remember it’s not, then feels Latin American until you remember it’s not quite that either. It exists in its own category, operating on its own schedule. Dinner at 11 PM. Clubs filling at 3 AM. Breakfast when the sun’s already baking the pavement. Tres Monos at number 10 theworlds50best brings Argentine intensity to cocktail craft. You can feel it in how the bartenders work, this passionate precision that only makes sense once you’ve spent time in the city.
Parrillas exist on every corner. Don Julio in Palermo showcases what grass-fed Argentine beef can actually achieve when prepared by people who care. La Cabrera serves portions sized for sharing that you’ll somehow finish solo. La Pecora Nera does Italian food that rivals anything in Italy. The heladerรญas serve ice cream that locals eat year-round, not just summer. Freddo is fine. Grido is cheaper. Both are good.
Buenos Aires doesn’t start until after 2 AM. Adjust all expectations accordingly. Crobar is big, commercial, packed. Niceto Club’s “Club 69” is the primary queer party with excellent energy and zero pretension. Kika does underground techno. La Confiterรญa operates in a converted theatre with acoustics that work for both live shows and DJ sets. Thelonious is for serious heads who care deeply about track selection.
The night extends until morning. Breakfast happens at noon. The cycle repeats.
The World’s 50 Best Bars list theworlds50best changes annually. Venues close. New places emerge. Rankings shift. What persists are the cities themselves and the cultures that produce these spaces.You don’t visit Hong Kong specifically for Bar Leone. You visit because Hong Kong offers a density of experience that’s difficult to replicate. The bar becomes your entry point into understanding how the city breathes after dark.
Travel strips away comfortable identities. You’re nobody in a foreign city, just another person ordering drinks in broken Spanish or mangled Cantonese. That anonymity liberates. You can be whoever you decide to be for however long the money lasts. The best bars create spaces where strangers become temporary friends, where conversations happen that wouldn’t occur elsewhere, where sharing drinks creates brief connections in an increasingly disconnected world.
We travel because staying home means accepting the version of ourselves we’ve become. We travel to remember there are other ways to live, other rhythms, other priorities. The bars are just where we pause between discoveries, where we process what we’ve seen, where we gather courage for whatever comes next.
And sometimes, the drink is really, really good.
Which doesn’t hurt.
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