I’ve been trying not to write about my favourite place in the world, since singing its praises has previously backfired, making finding a spot there harder than getting a French visa extension. 4S is now Delhi’s worst-kept secret, and the less people know about it, the better. Still, when the editor told me she had resigned herself to my sneaking an ode to 4S past her, I could no longer restrain myself.

For someone who likes complicated cocktails and bars with gimmicks like teacups, cats, passwords, or basic levels of hygiene, 4S is an atypical choice. But it is, without exaggeration, my favourite bar. I’ve been going there for over a decade, as my stomach lining will attest. (Eat there at your own peril. No, there is no justification for the Crispy Tofu Triangle Peanut Butter Sauce. And yes, even Defence Colony patriots stay away from the ‘Taste of Def Col’ chicken wings.)

A legend for its prices, its stretchy happy hours, and its greasy menu (the frying theme extends even to the ice cream), 4S is a dive with no complexes, a bulwark against all the underwhelming new places in Delhi, and all the hip ‘concept’ bars (please stop bringing me ‘deconstructed’ drinks and making me do all the work).

The interior is a deep-fried golden brown, the rexine is squishy, certain tables are wobbly and others sticky. The loos can be demoralising, and the music is strictly pre-1990. For décor, they have flatscreen TVs, an aquarium that may or may not be the provenance of the fish fingers, and one very luxuriant moustache.

The above-mentioned moustache belongs to Rajinder Chauhan, who stands guard outside, with a pistol-shaped cigarette lighter, and a delighted smile for everybody. Inside, the rest of the staff, led by PK, the manager, is just as welcoming; they remember you and your drink, and appear at your elbow just when you need more ice or interior-desecrating chilli lamb.

This friendly atmosphere and the close-packed tables make for a very sociable bar. Although you might encounter the odd unwelcome chat-up line or two, the staff would never stand for any of their customers, especially women on their own, being harassed, as Chauhan once told me. That’s one of the many reasons 4S endures.

Sadly, my love for 4S is somewhat one-sided. Though they’re always happy to see me, they don’t miss me like I miss them. And I haven’t been initiated into the secret inner circle, which is invited to sample PK’s legendary meat curry. Still, every time I go, the staff smiles, and they conjure up a table, and they already know what I want. “Vodka-tonic, lime juice, chilli potatoes, kung pao chicken?” they say, beaming, as if it’s my name.

Wherever I am in the world, I try to find the local 4S, for comparison’s sake. Every city has one. In Kolkata, I am told, it’s Oly Pub, and in Bengaluru, Koshy’s. In Mumbai, my friend Neha assures me, the 4S of the south is Gokul, while the 4S of the north is Janata. (I’m inclined to agree; Janata even scores points over 4S for having prawns Koliwada on their menu). In Brighton, there are two contenders — the Basketmakers’s Arms, and the Druid’s Head. In Budapest, I suspect it’s the Szimpla Kert, in the ruins of an abandoned Soviet building.

In Paris, I’m still evaluating the possibilities. Despite its frou-frou reputation, Paris is a surprisingly grungy city, and many old-school bars are as impervious to décor, prices or cocktail trends as 4S. Based on popularity and pricing, Aux Folies, a graffiti-ed bar that spills over into the alley outside — always full, always cheap, always welcoming — is a contender, although the waitstaff’s lumbersexual beards are just a hair too hip. For peculiar smell, there is the dirt-cheap Bar Dix, which only serves sangria, among prints that haven’t changed since the 19th century, and an odour that implies someone has been assassinated in one of the wine barrels. And going by a long happy hour and a total disregard for changing times, there is the unpretentious Clair de Lune, a traditional zinc bar in Montmartre with a retro neon sign above the counter. They play Eye of the tiger in the afternoons and reggae in the evenings, and the entire neighbourhood can be found here: burly men with their cloudy Ricards, young couples out for an apéro, office colleagues, harassed mothers, and an old lady who will leave in a huff if they run out of peanuts.

The jury is still out, but in the meantime, please don’t go to 4S. It’s hard enough getting a table without all of you muscling in too.

( Naintara Maya Oberoi is a food writer based in Paris. Follow her on twitter>@naintaramaya )

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