Molly, De Pijpescort for the2 a.m. crowd

Two a.m. A basement club in De Pijp, bass climbing up through the floorboards, a red light sweeping the room. Molly is at the bar ordering a mezcal sour with very specific instructions, then back beside you before the drop. She knows this track. She knows the next one too. When it lands she turns round and grins like she arranged it personally. The crowd parts a little when she moves. She dances like nobody is filming, which, in that room, nobody is.

Molly is twenty-four. 164 cm, curvy, long dark brown hair falling in loose waves, brown eyes. Warm, the kind of warm that turns strangers into old friends by the second round. Playful and confident at once, so the flirting is fun and never forced. Her style is bold glam with a flirtatious edge: red, satin, a pair of gloves, something that catches the strobe and throws it back. Nothing about her is lukewarm, least of all her laugh.

House music is the soundtrack of her life. Deep, soulful, played loud through a proper system. Craft cocktails are the ritual around it. She will walk you through a menu, steer you off the sugary stuff and toward something with smoke and bitters. Tina is the other cocktail devotee on the list. And then the curveball, vintage cars. Old Alfas, long bonnets, chrome, cracked leather seats. Park a classic on the Ceintuurbaan and she will stop mid-sentence just to stare at it. She can name the year of an old Mercedes from its tail lights alone.

English is how she talks you onto the dance floor and back off it for water. Book Molly when the night has a DJ in it, or should. Start from €180 per hour, let her choose the second bar, and do not plan on an early night. Already have a club in mind? Tell us which one; she probably knows the door staff.

Anything before ten is too early, according to Molly. So the night starts late, over dinner in De Pijp at a place where the playlist gets as much thought as the menu, and she names the DJ on the speakers before the starters land. Next, a cocktail bar with a smoking gun behind the counter and a bartender she challenges to build something around mezcal and grapefruit. Around one, the club. A small room, a serious sound system, a crowd that came for the music. She finds the spot where the bass sounds best and plants herself there, water between tracks, her rule. At closing, still buzzing, she takes a detour down a quiet street to show you a classic car she has been admiring for weeks, chrome shining under a streetlamp.