Third Generation Women

BEIJING - We were out of our element, three white guys in Wudaokou's Korean section. But here the people are friendly, so before long we were drinking with an oil magnate and toasting the beauty of Russia's Third Generation Beauties.

With Monday's closing of Zub, one of the area's two bars specializing in local language students and promiscuous Chinese, is gone. Wednesday is All-You-Drink-Night night at the other bar, Propaganda, and with Zub out of the picture, the line to get in reached from the plate glass door to the chau'r sellers on the street.

But if Zub closing means more time at the Korean bars on the other side of the district, it won't be missed. Here the bars are big and spacious with funny Chinglish names like Hump. The clientèle includes businessmen and career professionals, people who have spent decades in China and speak great Chinese. Zub, Lush and Propaganda are Wudaokou's Frat Row, and this is the East Village, where people come to play with a bit of cash and try to look sophisticated wasted.

The linchpin of the evening was Lao Mo, a friendly man with a beet-red round face. We met Lao Mo on the street, and he took us to a fancy bar with red fiber optic lighting and paid for all of our alcohol.

Lao Mo treated us. He said this over and over during the evening. Probably the English word Mo will take away from the evening is "treat," which he pronounced "tree."

He wanted to practice his English, but his oral skills were poor and not helped by his advanced level of inebriation. We tried a conversation, but couldn't make it past "How old are you?" To communicate I first had to speak in Chinese, then repeat what I said in English to keep up the ruse as this being an educational meeting, and not just drinking on a Wednesday.

Ever the reporter, I tried to solicit Mo's story. He worked in Urumqi, the capital of northwest China's Xinjiang Autonomous Region as an engineer looking for oil. Xinjiang is a huge desert area populated by Uighurs, a Turkish Muslim group, and Han Chinese migrants. Mo was the latter, living off China's unquenchable oil thirst.

Why he was in Beijing wasn't clear, he was too drunk to explain in either language. He's got a sick boss in a Beijing hospital, and the company wants him back. Whether Lao Mo is planning to kidnap his ailing superior or push him in a wheelchair the 4,000 kilometers back to Urumqi, I'm not sure. Lao Mo considered his trip "tourism."

As the bottles of Tiger beer emptied, Lao Mo kept returning to his favorite subject: the women of Xinjiang. Lao Mo is married, with a 13-year-old son that he wants to study abroad, but doesn't stop him from admiring the women of his hometown.

"The woman of Urumqi are so beautiful," he said. "We have so many Third Generation Russian Women." He said this over and over, in English and then in Chinese (俄国三代人). I had no idea, so proposed a toast.

"To the Third Generation Russian Women of Urumqi," I said. "They are very beautiful."

The second part of the toast I didn't say aloud: "To the Korean bars of Wudaokou. May I visit often."