Ming Ding: A Bar That Didn’t Ask to Be Noticed—but Refused to Be Forgotten
How Berry built a quiet space for serious drinks, accidental community, and the slow art of staying.
Nestled in a quiet corner of Chengdu’s old town, Ming Ding is easy to miss. There’s no sign outside, no curated interior, no branded coasters or slogan. But for those who find it—and stay—it becomes something rare: a space that asks nothing of you, yet somehow gives a great deal.
The bar wasn’t part of a master plan. In fact, it was almost an accident. Berry, its owner, had originally wanted to open a restaurant. But a wall that couldn’t be torn down turned a side room into a bar—and a sideline into a calling. Without intending to, he began building a space defined not by concept, but by consistency. Not by ambition, but by attention.
I spoke with Berry about how Ming Ding came to be, what it means to create a place without pushing it into being, and the small rituals—an unopened bottle, a familiar face, a well-poured drink—that shape the slow, sincere rhythm of his bar.
1. How did a curious young bartender end up envisioning a lifetime behind the bar?
How Berry found stillness in motion—and why he never left the bar
Berry didn’t set out to become a bartender. After graduating, he simply started working behind the counter—first in bars, then in craft breweries. He even learned to brew, drawn by the mix of science and intuition. But something didn’t feel right. Brewing, as he puts it, “took too long to see where you were going.” The process was stable, but too slow. Too settled.
Then came whisky.
At first, it was just drinking. Ardbeg Corryvreckan hit him hard—not just with its flavor, but with its force. A smoky punch that lingered, challenged, and somehow stayed honest. From there, he fell down the rabbit hole: exploring malts, collecting bottles, and eventually—almost accidentally—starting to mix.
His first real cocktail was a Godfather. He didn’t even like amaretto at the time. But the process intrigued him. It wasn’t just pouring—it was calibrating, noticing, adjusting. There was something about that dance that clicked. A craft that wasn’t static, but alive.
For a while, he worked. He experimented. He poured. But it wasn’t until one quiet moment—when he pictured himself at 60, still behind a bar, still talking to people, still pouring drinks—that something settled inside him.
“I imagined that,” he says, “and I didn’t feel scared. I felt calm.”
That was the moment. Not dramatic. Not loud. But real.
He didn’t chase the spotlight. He chose the counter. And stayed.
2. Mingding wasn’t born from a big plan—but from a room that couldn’t be opened. What do you think it means to let space, not vision, shape the future?
The bar that wasn’t meant to be—and the beauty of things left unresolved
Mingding didn’t begin with a blueprint.
It began with two rooms—and a locked wall in between.
Originally, Berry planned to open a restaurant. The layout was simple: one side for food, the other for drinks. But the landlord wouldn’t allow the two units to be connected. That one refusal quietly rewrote everything.
So Berry improvised. The smaller room—originally meant for storage or a side counter—became a bar. A modest one. No signage, no renovation, no official launch. Just a place to make drinks for whoever wandered in. Some came for dinner and stayed for a cocktail. Some only came for the drinks. And slowly, without ceremony, the bar took on a life of its own.
He didn’t market it. He didn’t name it with some lofty story.
Even the name “Mingding” was chosen casually—just a word he liked the sound of.
But maybe that’s the point.
Some spaces don’t need to be declared. They need to be discovered.
And some futures aren’t built from plans—but from friction, from obstacles, from the soft detours that reveal what actually fits.
Berry never forced Mingding to become something. He let it reveal itself.
And what it revealed was this: a quiet space with strong drinks, no rules, no pretension, and no pressure to explain.
In a world obsessed with branding and intention, Mingding became something rare:
A bar not created by strategy—but by proximity, by presence, and by staying open when most would’ve walked away.
3. There’s no grand branding, no flashy storytelling—but there is consistency, and a sense of calm. What kind of people do you think this bar quietly calls in?
No brand, no rules—just a space that feels like it’s always been waiting for you
Walk into Mingding, and you might not notice it right away.
There’s no glowing signage, no curated playlist, no performative theme. Just shelves of bottles, well-used counters, and a bartender who’s not trying to impress you.
And yet—people return.
Maybe it’s because there are no rules. Maybe it’s because there’s no pressure to decode the place. Mingding doesn’t ask you to be anyone. It doesn’t sell you an experience. It simply makes room for you.
Berry doesn’t spend time imagining “target audiences.” He doesn’t talk about market trends or customer personas. But over time, a pattern emerged. The people who return, the ones who stay, often share something quiet in common.
They’re not here to be seen.
They’re here to be.
Writers. Service workers. Bartenders after their shifts. A regular who always orders the same drink, and a stranger who just walked in, looking tired but open. They find their place not because the bar was designed for them—but because it wasn’t designed to exclude them.
Mingding, in a way, operates like an unspoken agreement:
If you come with respect, you’re welcome.
If you’re curious, you’ll be poured something honest.
If you stay long enough, you’ll stop needing to define what kind of place it is.
It’s not an aesthetic. It’s a temperament.
A place that doesn’t push or perform—but quietly pulls.
4. You’re saving a 1950s bottle of Pastis for a future moment. What would make you feel that moment has arrived?
One unopened bottle, one unfinished promise
Tucked away in Berry’s collection is a bottle that’s never been opened—a 1950s Pastis, thick with time, its label weathered but intact. It’s not a showpiece. Most guests will never see it. But for Berry, it’s not about showing. It’s about saving.
That bottle was the first old spirit he ever acquired. He found it in Japan, early in his journey, long before Mingding had a name. Back then, it wasn’t just a purchase—it was a decision. A quiet vow to one day build a place worthy of a collection. A bar lined with bottles that carried dust, decades, and stories.
That bottle became a symbol. Not of nostalgia, but of direction.
And to this day, it remains sealed.
“When will I open it?” Berry pauses. “Maybe when the shelves are full. Maybe when I feel like the bar has become what I imagined that day—before it even existed. Or maybe just when the right people are in the room.”
Because for him, opening a bottle like that is never about the liquid.
It’s about what the opening means.
You don’t pour a bottle like that for effect.
You pour it when it feels earned.
Until then, it waits—quietly, like the bar itself.
Not demanding attention. Just holding space.
Endnotes
Through this quiet conversation with Berry, I was reminded that some of the most meaningful spaces in life aren’t designed—they’re discovered. Ming Ding wasn’t built to impress, or even to explain. It simply emerged—out of a blocked doorway, a side room, and a willingness to stay.
What lingered with me most wasn’t a specific drink or philosophy—but the calm clarity with which Berry speaks about imperfection. A bar that began without a brand. A shelf that’s still not full. A bottle that’s still waiting to be opened.
There’s no rush here. No urgency to define, scale, or compete. Just a quiet rhythm—of drinks poured honestly, guests returning naturally, and a future allowed to arrive at its own pace.
And perhaps that’s the deeper lesson:
We don’t always need vision to move forward.
Sometimes, we just need to stay—long enough for meaning to show up.
Writer – Aukingfai