Our favourite five: Amsterdam listening bars

A century ago, the only place a Japanese jazz lover could listen to records in respectable company was a kissa bar, a hole-in-the-wall haunt where like-minded audiophiles could lose themselves in the curious customs of the West. The fusion of dim lighting, imported whiskey, simple cooking and rare, crackling vinyl kept cities like Tokyo in step with the wider world, while fashioning a craze on its own.

Globalisation killed the rarefied cachet of Tokyo’s kissa culture, yet the concept never died. As younger generations gravitate toward vintage vinyl, some are discovering kissa lore and finding interesting new ways to celebrate its East-West mashup. Today you’ll find a listening bar everywhere from Madrid to Montreal, but nowhere is doing it better than Amsterdam.

In the Dutch capital, you can sip natural Alsatian wine at the DJ booth in a repurposed garage, or nibble on escargots in a speakeasy blasting Biz Markie from handcrafted Japanese speakers. With the tourist-clogged centre pushing locals outside the canal belt, listening bars supply club sceptics with sophisticated food and fun in neighbourhoods off the usual beat. Because this is Amsterdam, you won’t need to trek too far nor spend too much – and style is paramount to the experience.

1. Cornerstore

DJs outnumber chefs at Cornerstore, a converted garage in Amsterdam-Noord. Where some restaurants seat patrons in view of the open kitchen, here they dangle on stools around the DJ booth, watching skilled hands adjust the levels on an old soul track and flick through funk records. “We have one rule,” says co-owner Michaël Coehorst. “They can play anything they want, as long as the volume isn’t too high.”

At three years old, Cornerstore is Amsterdam’s veteran listening bar and still as busy as the week it opened to rapturous reviews. One repeat customer speaks of “that Cornerstore high – with the wine, the music, the food… everything’s just done right.”

2. De Nada

The Art Deco enclave of Rivierenbuurt pivots around a community garden on a street where Anne Frank’s family once lived. But its unofficial town hall is De Nada, a scrappy corner bar with a new raison d’être. After the pandemic, party impresario Rutger de Kroes took over the lease, strung up moon-like orb lights and locked in a veteran DJ with his finger on the neighbourhood pulse. The selection of seasonal wines and produce is a huge draw, but after dinner the 1990s German speakers take over. Mixes are executed with precision. De Kroes downloads them to Spotify with the directive, “No shuffle, please”.

3. Hearth

Hearth’s Mexican black-bean sushi and tempura jalapeños with nori sauce are beloved by Boomers and Millennials alike. They gush, in multiple languages, over the plant-based menu – and co-owner Valentino Vacca reckons 75 per cent of his patrons aren’t even vegan.

Customers discover Hearth through its MixCloud platform, where nightly DJ sets find a permanent home. The Japanese-designed sound system filters soul, jazz and Balearic beats without reverb. “It’s flowy,” says Vacca. “People who like music are always looking for a new experience, and here they can hear music in another dimension.”

4. Café Wu

Crafty wood speakers by Kikuno hang like designer pendant lights from the ceiling of Café Wu. They’re uncharacteristically gorgeous, like the tables of fashionable east-enders and the sculptural blocks of bone marrow on their plates. After the dinner rush, owner Danny Lee starts up the music.

“What you see in a lot of restaurants in Amsterdam is that people finish up at nine or ten, then leave for the next place,” he says. “I find that disappointing. We wanted to extend the night so people don’t need to leave. After dinner they order another bottle of wine, maybe have friends join them. That’s when we turn up the vinyl.”

5. Paindemie

Where can you hear an Eddie Murphy party tune sandwiched between Leonard Cohen and Biz Markie? At Paindemie, a tiny second-floor salon barely known beyond the young cliques of Amsterdam-West. Japanese sarnies are the thing here: fried chicken or crispy egg, served on crustless white pain de mie bread under a fanciful silver cloche – an ironic touch that suits the house-party vibe. The seven velvet booths go lightning fast, even on Monday nights. When the playlist segues into techno and people pile in, the bar, with its menu of sakes, takes the overflow.