Mythology of Berlin Summer™

★ The Backsize Dispath

From what I understand, the party was supposed to happen a couple of weeks prior. It didn’t. The postponement was announced in all caps: “BERLIN WEATHER KILLED US. BACKSIZE NEW DATE 23.05.26.”

I had seen none of it: not the original date, not the new one. Jen Florin, a woman who runs things, was kind enough to fill me in while at the opening of Mitte Büro. “We’re going to run the bar,” she said. “It’s just around the corner from here. I think you’ll like it.”

A few hours later, as the Büro’s last guests were stubbing out their last Marlboro Golds, Jen followed up with a message: “Congratulations on your new office babe! Would love to see if you wanna come to Backsize and see my wife Moderna playing.”

Overheard at the Grand Opening of Mitte Büro:

“I feel like I’ve finally reached the endpoint of my career, which is socialite.”

The next Friday by six p.m., B. and I were ready to leave. In preparation, he had tried: a synthetic top that read aggressively gym-forward, a brown cardigan from the women’s section of Humana abandoned within seconds on account of sweating, a black shirt that barely concealed his belly button, which somehow looked both too much and not enough, and several further iterations I’ve already suppressed for my own wellbeing.

He’d landed on something that worked. I’d put on a wide-brimmed Études hat—overdressed by maybe ten percent, as a sign of appreciation for the host. We walked to Friedrichstraße 112B.

Overheard on Friedrichstraße:

“The only Saint I believe in is Saint Moritz.”

If that address means anything to you, you’ve been here long enough. The former home of the legendary King Size Bar. 60 square meters of 2010s indulgence. The meeting point of “Berliner Republik glitterati,” according to Condé Nast. Owned by the people of Grill Royal, with Mitte’s own Frank Künster at the door.

(Frank now operates Georgia Bar on Georgenstraße, a sort of spiritual successor, which survived a fire last year and came back stronger, permanently full, with music that’s genuinely good and an ashtray smell that follows you home.)

In the afterglow of King Size’s ghosts, Backsize’s door girls procedurally checked their guest list: printed sheets, then handwritten notes. They couldn’t find my name, or B.’s.

Thirty euros changed hands. Für zwei, bitte. Jen said a bunch of her friends had faced the same issue. She compensated with drink tickets, which I gladly accepted. Frosé was on offer, alongside classics like Campari Spritz, which was my choice once, twice, and eventually three times.

Overheard at Backsize:

“She’s the type of woman who’d use ‘summer’ as a verb. God bless.”

The crowd was in their thirties and forties, with occasional fifties and a few well-maintained sixties. They danced and talked in roughly equal measure. They smiled at each other for reasons completely unrelated to negotiating a group trip to the bathroom stall. It felt comforting. Frank was there, too.

As the sun began going down, the flags went up. One big one from the deck, a few smaller ones from between the shoulders below. They read: “Philipp.” And: “Live Forever Jung.”

A tribute, presumably, to a house DJ named Philipp, who’d died. I’d never met him. Most people seemed like they had. There’s a certain expertise that accumulates in those who’ve seen many a Berlin Summer™: they know whose name belongs on the flag. They might’ve had a hand in establishing this hyperlocal mythology, and they won’t mind carrying it forward.

That’s what Berlin Summer™ is: purified, eternally justifiable mythology. It doesn’t deny reality by any means; the flag-bearers will tell you it’s real—and it is, in the sense that cryptocurrency is real. It holds value because enough people agree to act like it does.

The whole ordeal was ignited in the 1990s, when there wasn’t much money, but there was time without immediate economic pressure, and half-naked ravers hanging from traffic lights on Straße des 17. Juni.

It was codified in the 2000s, when former mayor Klaus Wowereit called the city “poor but sexy,” accidentally delivering Berlin’s catchiest tagline to date. Those words possessed the confidence of someone who’s never once second-guessed their outfit. They removed the unnecessary dialectics, making for the perfect setup.

Soon after came easyJet flights and VICE event reports. “Creative professionals” arriving from all over the place to knock back a sekt at Cookies, fall in love with someone from São Paulo, lose their Céline sunglasses in a lake, ignore two emails, and fly home convinced they’d touched something.

They had. They’d touched the agreement.

Back at Friedrichstraße 112B, B. and I broke that agreement. We left the party way before it peaked, to grab pizza at Slice Society.

Because Mitte Büro was right there, we thought we might as well head inside. Because we were heading inside, we thought we might as well grab some more Campari on the way. Because there was Campari, we thought we might as well put on some Italo disco.

Three hours in, strangers were knocking on the door, thinking it was a pop-up speakeasy. By that point, I suppose it was.

Overheard on Torstraße:

“Express yourself, don’t repress yourself, babe. And just to be clear: I’m not quoting Madonna. I’m quoting Britney Spears quoting Madonna, ok?”

We had missed the confetti cannon. The confetti cannon had gone off without us, in a courtyard around the corner. Meanwhile, we were at the Büro, running an accidental bar for strangers who’d wandered in looking for the dreamy summer night they’d been promised.

Literary theorist Roland Barthes wrote that dreaming essentializes life into destiny—because dreams are impoverished, and the alibi of an absence.

Impoverished dreams. The alibi of an absence. I don’t know what Philipp would’ve made of this. I think he would’ve rolled his eyes, and poured himself another Campari Spritz.

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★ Enter Mitte Büro

The Headquarters of Mitte Daily

Torstraße 170, 10115 Berlin

As you may have gathered by now, earlier this month, we opened the doors to Mitte Büro, our brand-new, permanent Torstraße headquarters. If you were there for the party: I see you, and I salute you. Your presence means a lot, truly.

The most commonly asked question at the opening was: What are you guys opening, exactly? Is it, like, an actual office? Technically yes. I am there almost every day now, answering emails, avoiding emails, smoking cigarettes, and pretending this was always the plan.

Is it an event venue? Also yes. Mitte Büro can be booked for pop-ups, workshops, dinners, presentations, salons, and other forms of civic mischief that require a room with a POV. Our team can support with comms and logistics.

Is it a shop? You guessed it. Our apparel line, Mitte Kollektion, is on display and available to inspect, try on, and take home.

Is it a content studio? Naturally. We have the equipment to host shoots, produce podcasts, film interviews, and put out whatever else the internet demands.

Is it an art space? Of sorts. This address belonged to a gallery before, and we intend to respect that lineage by occasionally putting interesting things on the walls. Conversations with artist friends are already underway.

So… yes, Mitte Büro is many things. That is the point. We’re currently developing the cultural programming for the months ahead. Stay tuned for more updates, and in the meantime, drop me a line if you’d like to host something at the Büro—or simply stop by if the lights are on.

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Consider sharing this with someone who likes to show up overdressed by ten percent as a gesture of appreciation. They might, in fact, appreciate it.