Manero's

After something of a hiatus following our really quite unacceptable behavior in several of these bars that we profess to love so much; we’re back, and we’re going back to our roots by telling you about a weird bar we found when we were drunk that’s located underneath a kebab shop. 

Manero’s is a yellow door located on Kingsland Road about halfway between Shoreditch High Street and Dalston Junction – it doesn’t seem to have any distinctive features apart from aforementioned bright yellow door, and entry is via knocking or a buzzer. I discovered it using the skills I picked up during my ill-spent youth in Wales, vis-à-vis; someone saying ‘go on, knock on that door, see what happens’ and the understanding that everyone fucking legs it if anyone angry answers. 

Luckily for us, no one angry answered, a very nice bloke who promised to give me a treat if I followed him into his basement did. Always one to think the best of people, as well as one to ignore those videos they make you watch in Primary School, I promptly obliged. 

Manero’s calls itself a ‘Private Members Club’, but this doesn’t seem to have any real meaning, all they ask is that you ‘please be nice’. Surprisingly enough, we managed to stick to this rule long enough to not be unceremoniously thrown out or have any threats of calling the appropriate authorities leveled against us. 

It's a dimly-lit bar with an eclectic mixture of furniture that mostly looks like it was left to the place by eccentric great aunts; in short then, brilliant. The bar itself is very small, apparently the capacity of the place is only 69 (hee hee hee). I was going to make a very immature joke about that being just the right size and number for an orgy but I’d rather just lazily throw in the fact that I’d already thought of it and let you fill in the punchline. Any laughs you gain from this are of course, as a result of my dazzling wit, not yours, so please be aware of that. 

At one end there’s a window through which all the drinks are served, and at the opposite end of the room is a raised stage bit where you can sit to drink them. I liked this, as it made me feel a bit like the central character in some sort of gritty and urbane stage play. Then again, as a self-centred narcissist with what has been described as a ‘feeble’ mind, I always feel like this, and everyone else in my life I see as basically glorified props. Basically, this stage-area bit fed my already inappropriately large ego, and you should go and sit in a big leather-backed chair and imagine you’re in the 50s and married to a woman called Marjorie for a bit too. It’s great. 

The drinks were mainly cocktails, and for once, I decided to forgo my usual pathway of obnoxiously asking for ‘lovely lager’ until I’m either given one or told ‘please, this this a garden centre’ and have to leave. The cocktail I was made was called the something-or-other, and I believe my peers had respectively, the whats-its-face and the forgotten-what-its-called. Look, I’d been drinking heavily and I’ll confess I forget what I had, but it was delicious, as was everything I had in there. Manero’s has that rarest of things; a bartender who is actually a bartender and knows his drinks, rather than some dickhead who can catch ice in a fucking cocktail shaker and doesn’t know his Bellini from his Bellend. 

Basically, Manero’s is a weird, dark basement underneath a kebab shop in East London that not many people know about, and that’s sort of the whole point of this blog. It looks cool, it has great drinks, and I like it there. Thanks for the great night Manero’s. And thanks for not bumming me in the back like in Pulp Fiction. That's always a plus.

J. Clee

Manero's
232 Kingsland Road,
London
E2 8AX

members@maneros-london.com

facebook.com/APrivateMembersClub

The Filling Station (a.k.a Shrimpy's)

I’ve always hated that all too familiar feeling of being judged for being drunk, chain-smoking my second packet of Malboro Reds and cooking on an open fire in a petrol station. Fortunately for me, being blessed with a near total misunderstanding of the concept of self preservation, I spend my holidays in crippled former Yugoslav republics where such behaviour is far more quotidian. 

For the rest of you, who I know have been dying to drink up and light up in a petrol station, The Filling Station (a.k.a. Shrimpy’s) is perfect. Of course, I’m a pretty cool guy so I think that The Filling Station lost a lot of its rough around the edges, ‘you might die here’ charm that us east London types love when it started serving prosecco and seafood instead of diesel oil. Then again, I don’t get a vote because half the stuff I drink may well be unleaded petrol and I wouldn’t know the difference.

To clarify, I really hope that nobody reading this genuinely considers themselves edgy enough to consider their local Texaco garage a good place to party. Health and safety, the criminal justice system, GCSE chemistry and the most basic of human survival instincts dictate that there are probably better places to spend your Friday night. One of those places is Shrimpy’s behind Kings Cross station. On the canal just off York Way, the forecourt of this former petrol station has been turned into a bar and grill which is sunny, spacious, airy and, most importantly, nothing like the Cleveland-dungeonesque basement bars we usually review. This makes it perfect for all of you engaging in our national pastime donning shorts and t-shirts and pretending you’re not cold.

In the interests of thoroughness I should mention that the Filling Station’s refurbishment began with the opening of Shrimpy’s restaurant in the former service station shop. I can’t tell you much about it because, as women often like to remind me, I don’t deserve nice things so the nearest I got to the restaurant was the toilet it shares with the forecourt bar. That was very nice though. I particularly liked the anti-heroin lights.

Now a quick word about the forecourt bar. You may find that it takes a very long time to get served. If this is the case you’ve probably fallen into the trap as most of the other people at this bar fall. You’ve seen the long single file line waiting for the bar, forgotten everything you ever knew about anything, decided that you are in fact an american tourist, assumed that this is how bars work now and joined the back of the queue. Don’t worry you’re not the only one. Fortunately I’m here to remind you that you’ve been in a bar before and this is patently not how they work. Just walk straight to the front and get served almost instantly. That’s what we did but then again most people hate us so swift service could be seen as something of a pyrrhic victory.

Once you’ve made your way to the front of the queue via whichever is your preferred route you’ll get your first glimpse of the food and drink menu. Somebody with more lyrical talent than me once said, ‘variety is the spice of life’. The clever folk at Shrimpy’s have come up with the compelling counterpoint of, ‘no it isn’t shut up’. The food menu is limited to meat or vegetable tortas, corn on the cob or a seafood bucket. Childhood memories of singing ‘there’s a hole in my bucket’ and 4am trips to KFC have given me a vague understanding of what a bucket is but what the seafood is I have no idea. This isn’t Mr Shrimpy’s fault as I never bothered to ask and I had just eaten a pizza so I didn’t order it. I also have no idea what a torta is. 

The drinks menu is equally simple: lager; cider; margarita; prosecco from a tap. In a round about way I mean this as a complement because beer that doesn’t say Carling on the side confuses me and the choice of whether I want garlic or chili sauce on my kebab is often too much for my pretty little head to worry about.

You get the point. You’re not going there to drink cocktails out of unicorn horns, discuss the relative merits of Tia Maria over Kahlua and wow your friends with how the extract of whogivesafuck has really brought out the flavour of your cocktail. You’re going there because it’s cool, it’s different and you’re so desperate to show off you’ve resorted to reading this blog. You’ll find a great place to enjoy the sun and look out over the canal with a beer discussing important  questions such as: ‘if I’m on a barge am I ipso facto a pirate?’; ‘can river people shrink your head?’; and ‘if that’s a seagull where is the sea?’.

King's Cross Filling Station 
Goods Way 
London 
N1C 4UR 

020 8880 6111 

www.kxfs.co.uk

House of Wolf

House of Wolf boldly describe themselves as: ‘a multi-sensory experimental pleasure palace’. We were keen to see whether it could live up to the hype.
This blog was born out of a hatred of shit bars rather than an appreciation of good ones and I have been looking forward to my first opportunity to go to town on some overrated shitheap. Unfortunately my first mercilessly scathing review is going to have to wait because Carlsberg don’t do cocktail bars but, if they did, they would be nothing like House of Wolf’s because Carlsberg is horrible and House of Wolf is great.
There seems to be something of a trend in London for serving caipirinhas and mojitos at 15 quid a pop to guys in suits rutting around Barrio East braying about how expensive their drinks are and, ergo, how fucking great they are. Well, I’d like to begin by assuring you that House of Wolf bucks this trend like water over a bridge.

Recently, we visited East London’s third best Lewis Carroll themed cocktail bar. I won’t do them the disservice of naming it, but it begins with 'C' and ends with ‘allooh Callay’. It won’t be featuring on this blog because I tend to assume that if nothing positive stands out in the sporadic memory-bytes of a heavy night, the bar was probably fairly pedestrian. That said, having sifted through the haze of broken images in my head-box, I remember a prolonged altercation with a barman in which he refused to serve me a ‘Lady Boy’ (if you don’t know what that is I suggest you start watching I’m Alan Partridge). In fairness, it was perhaps not the most fashionable order. But get over yourselves. I had done everything that this half-heartedly Jabberwocky-themed twat-den had asked of me: re-mortgaged my house to pay for their horrible Estonian lager; put up with rubbing shoulders with the self-entitled wankers that make up their clientele; not punched anyone in the face. I don’t think it was too much to ask for them to produce a couple of Lady Boys when, however bat-shit mental that may be, that is what I wanted.

House of Wolf, in stark and refreshing contrast, will produce anything you want. But that isn’t it. Their entire staff have been trained by the Delphic Oracle to produce the drink you want most in the world based on the most vague of instructions. With instructions such as, ‘he only likes lager and fags, what can you do?’ and, ‘can I have something that tastes of despair in a good way?’, they will work their magic. The result is a drink that is so much better than what you thought you wanted that it will make you question your ability to ever decide what’s in your own best interests ever again. Of course, I’ve never been able to get even the slightest inkling as to what my own best interests are so I’m rather hoping that I can hire one of their bar staff as my carer because I can't be trusted and it seems they know what's best.

Once you’ve had a bespoke cocktail and decided that you trust the bar staff with your taste buds, sobriety and credit card, I would strongly suggest an alcoholic experiment in the ‘Apothecary’. The House of Wolf’s Apothecary is the forum that inspired J.K. Rowling’s portrayal of potions classes, discovered what Tiggers really like and is the alma mater of Professor Wheeto. And that’s all true (it isn’t). Never has numbing your mind with hard liquor entailed such a degree of artistic merit as it does when exploring the Apothecary cocktail list. With everything from popping candy to Szechuan flowers making up the ingredients, the cocktails are a sensory experience akin to losing your virginity: excitement; followed by confusion; followed by euphoria; followed by a nagging regret that you finished it so quickly; followed by a lifelong desire to do it again and again.

At this point I should mention that, because I’m a child and I only like new shiny things, I never made it past the Apothecary cocktail list. Can you blame me? They’re served with edible desert islands and blocks of cheese. However, the other writers on this blog moved on to the House Cocktail list. They’re idiots so the only feedback I could get was ‘I want to go for a kebab on the way home’. However, had they spent more of their lives training to be sommeliers and less getting drunk behind bins I’m sure they would have said something like: ‘I enjoyed some creative twists on the classics as well as some totally new flavours. They were a pleasure to drink and came at a very reasonable price’.

Of course, you don’t always want a cocktail that is infused with black pudding, designed by NASA and produced by Gandalf (actually, I do, I want to stay there and never leave). Sometimes you just want one of the classics. House of Wolf’s non-exhaustive list of classic cocktails, all at £7.50, with a promise to make anything that isn’t on the list, is exactly how classic cocktails should be done. I like a Martini as much as the next man, but I don’t like B@1 bar staff pretending that there’s anything complex about making one.

What makes House of Wolf great is the imagination and creativity that goes, not only into their cocktails, but into everything they do. From the decor to the food menu the House of Wolf offers something new and different and borderline arousing to the London overindulgence scene. Of course, we didn’t try the food because we’re kebab-munching pikeys.

What makes House of Wolf the best cocktail bar in London is that all of this comes without an ounce of pretension. With cocktail ingredients listed as ‘some stuff from the garden’, vintage Placebo and Bloodhound Gang playing through the speakers and staff who are happy to indulge idiots like us, the whole set up is a relaxed and enjoyable beacon of hope in the all-too-wanky London drinking scene.

Well done, and can I come and live in you?
181 Upper Street,
Islington,
London
N1 1RQ

020 7288 1470

www.houseofwolf.co.uk

Opium

The 1800s saw the might of the Empire of the Great Qing rise up against the British and French Armies in two separate wars that would rage for seven years. The cause of all this kerfuffle? Opium. 

Obviously that time it was the drug Opium, but while almost certainly not as heavily addictive (to be fair, I wouldn’t know, I’ve never tried opium because I’m not completely insane), Opium Chinatown is sure to be the subject of a hell of a lot of discussion in Britain too. 

Having launched extremely recently, we were keen to try the delights of Opium as soon as possible, so we rushed down there one Saturday with some women we were desperately trying to impress. So desperately were we trying to impress them in fact, that we got there before the ‘amber light’ came on and we had to go and sit in a pub round the corner for half an hour before Opium opened. Fucking hell. 

The doorway into Opium is the perfect way to feel like you’re Pat Bateman (when really you’re more Pat Sharpe. Or at least I am, but I’m pretty sure the mullet’s going to make a comeback any day now, then we'll see who's laughing). They advertise themselves as ‘behind the jade door’, and they’re not lying. Alright, they are a bit, it’s slightly less ‘jade’ than it is ‘chlorine’ but let’s romanticise it a bit and say jade: 15-16 Gerrard Street is a nondescript door sandwiched between two Chinese restaurants, with a single buzzer beside it. Ring it - once the amber light is on that is, otherwise they’ll tell you to go away and you’ll have to drink warm flat lager in a sad pub round the corner - and they’ll buzz you in. 

Opium is built in an old townhouse, and as such, you walk straight into the stairwell and begin the climb up. We were taken up three flights of very well-decorated stairs to the very top floor, which gave an amazing view out over the top of Chinatown and down towards the river. 

The interior is particularly well done, it’s actually Texan-style. No, obviously not, it’s Chinese. Opium have painstakingly created the perfect Chinese / British fusion, right down to the wood used in the floorboards and the patterning on the seats. Then again, the nearest I’ve been to China is a day-trip to Hastings when I was 12, so what the fuck do I know about it? Basically, it looks loads like the bits I remember in House of Flying Daggers but I mainly remember that bit that happens in a blizzard so again, I’m a bit useless here. If anyone who reads this blog has actually been to China and would like to disagree, please leave a comment below which we can promptly ignore. It looks cool, alright? 

Anyway, Opium looks cool, smells like those rugs you can buy in Camden and has a massive cocktail menu: so far so good. 

Apparently Opium specialise in dim-sum, and it’s particularly delicious, but I wouldn’t know anything about that, because I was too busy panicking over the fact that the only beer I could see was Tiger for £5.80. Indeed, many of the drinks confused and scared me, casting an eye through the menu I noticed ‘The Classics’ as well as the many Chinese-themed cocktails, such as The Shanghai Surprise and The Kung Fu Fizz. All these interested me about as much as cocktails usually do: barely at all. 

But then, I stumbled across the area of the menu entitled ‘Chinese Temperance Cocktails’ (non-alcoholic in other words). These all sounded like the kind of concoction you’d read about on the internet if you Googled ‘how do i get gum out of hair not my hair’. I’m a fairly adventurous drinker, but cress? Parsnip? No, I’m sorry, these are a bridge too far.

In the end, a friend of mine had one of the Temperance Cocktails, because apparently his tastebuds did something really evil in a former life, but he claimed it was ‘quite nice’. Some of the others we were with had a selection of the cocktails and declared them; 'stop asking me fucking questions about my cocktail, I already told you it was nice'.

I, aghast at the price, only had a £25 scotch. It definitely wasn’t because I absent-mindedly said the wrong thing to the waiter at the last moment. Not that at all. It’s because I’ve got loads of money and when the bill came I definitely didn’t consider trying to pretend another man ordered it and trying to leave.

(In fairness Opium is actually pretty reasonably priced if you’ve got a working human brain and don’t suffer from the Tourette’s version of the fucking Midas touch.)

To sum up then: Opium is a really cool bar, with great, relaxed settings, and a good cocktail menu, even if some of them do seem like they were mixed by Beetlejuice. The price is right, and it’s perfect for pretending you’ve got your ear to the ground in the throbbing London bar scene. Definitely go, and if you go from the 7th, it’s Chinese New Year, so I have no doubt they’ll have some great stuff on.

I know what you’re thinking. In answer to your last question: they left very shortly afterwards. After we took them to a lonely pub and I had an apparent brain haemorrhage whilst trying to order a drink, they cut their losses and they left. God I’m so alone.

P.S: Puns I considered using in this review but then didn’t manage to:
Crouching Lager, Hidden Flagon.
Big Trouble in Tipple China.
The Carafe Kid.

J. Clee

Behind The Jade Door,
15-16 Gerrard Street,
Chinatown,
London
W1D 6JE

020 7734 7276

www.opiumchinatown.com

White Rabbit Cocktail Club

In a nearby shop window is a vintage poster which reads: ‘No underground! Get over yourself. Visit Stoke Newington.’ If you’re not lucky enough to live there or nearby, get on a bus and go, and while you’re there you may as well make a day of it. If you can persuade someone to spend that much time with you, that is.

Let your companion consider mortality in the beautifully macabre Abney Park Cemetery. Some say death is actually a powerful aphrodisiac, so who knows where this may lead. Best leave before dark though: you may actually come face-to-face with mortality or at best a couple of ageing Goths wanking each other off onto a tomb where ‘dearly beloved’, who ‘fell asleep’, lies waiting to wake again at the Second Coming. Lighten the mood with a short stroll down the serene Church Street and regain your joie de vivre by admiring the fallow deer in Clissold Park.

After this psychological rollercoaster a drink is in order. Where better than the mental medley that is White Rabbit Cocktail Club? I never thought I would be writing the phrase ‘another bar inspired by the works of Lewis Carroll’, but there we go: this is another bar inspired by the works of Lewis Carroll to arrive on the London drinking scene. A touch of this inspiration, combined with a pinch of steam-punk, gives the venue the appearance of having been put together by someone addicted to opium. There is a large garden at the back - it was cold and dark so I didn’t look - but I am told it keeps on theme, and am sure that it will be a massive draw in warmer months.

The drinks themselves are delicious, made even more so by some excellent deals. The Kir Royale, one of the best I’ve had, seemed to be made by magic. The cassis syrup, unconstrained by the laws of physics, was settled at the bottom of the glass and gradually mixed with the champagne. I was also excited by the Caterpillar cocktail; due to my penchant for absinthe, and consequently doing something desolate. Unfortunately for this review, yet fortunately for my wellbeing, I dropped it all over my knees and didn’t have enough money to buy a new one.

Avid Alice in Wonderland fans will remember when Alice and her companions got in on the Two for Tuesday deal from Dominoes – the White Rabbit crying ‘Oh dear! Oh dear! The pizza shall be too late’. ‘Too late for what?’ you ask. Who knows, maybe the rabbit actually managed to drink his Caterpillar and that’s why he makes even less sense than a purse full of newts. At least, this is how I remember it. Then again, my time with the green fairy may have blurred my judgement somewhat. Unfortunately chain pizza restaurants have yet to reach the staunchly independent Stoke Newington, so White Rabbit have had to settle for the slightly less authentic, but still appetizing local pizzeria Il Bacio Express. You can order in a range of antipasti and pizza in order to fuel your Alice in Wonderland themed night and also seduce your companion with your sensuous, grease-covered fingers.

If this doesn’t put them off, lure them down into ‘The Rabbit Hole’. For surely, if they were not impressed enough already, this basement club space (open until 4am at weekends) will place them in no doubt that you are at one with the innate workings of this city. They offer a range of theatre, burlesque and club-nights on an exciting-looking schedule. The night, ‘Too Cute to Puke’, sounds way too tempting to be real.

If this is all too fancy then the Rochester Castle is round the corner - a prime contender for bleakest Wetherspoons in London.

Look out for White Rabbit’s sister venue opening soon on Hackney Road: Through the Looking Glass – yet another Alice in Wonderland style bar.

O.C

White Rabbit Cocktail Club,

125 Stoke Newington High Street,

N16 0UH

0207 249 6748

www.whiterabbitlondon.co.uk

Nightjar

Start Trouble’s magnum opus ‘Let’s Get Fucked Up’* pays tribute to the age which gave us Al Capone, the Canadian Whiskey trade, Boardwalk Empire and a plethora of London drinking venues in which the uncool likes of me and you can pretend to be cool. I am, of course, talking about the Prohibition. Where do you think you would have been in the Prohibition?

 If you see yourself as a bootlegger making your millions trickling grain whiskey into the parched mouths of the booze-starved masses of Atlantic City, you’re probably the sort of opportunistic, proactive industrious individual who would not be seen dead in a speakeasy. I also don’t want to be your friend. Alternatively, like me, you may be well aware that you would have embraced the desperation, spent every last penny you had on overpriced spirits in a poorly-lit New Orleans basement while listening to a suspect pianist who only sounded passable because you’re drunk. Now, if even though it’s 2013 not 1924, and you’re in London not New York, that still sounds like exactly what you want to do anyway, this bar is perfect for you.

While sitting in an empty pub in a council estate off York Way (yeah we get them wrong every so often so you don’t have to) the bartender told us that in his view Nightjar served the best cocktails in London. As my failing liver will attest, I place a lot of trust in bartenders’ judgement. On this occasion, my faith in a bar man’s advice led me, not to waking up in a skip for once, but rather to one of the best cocktail bars in the city.

I won’t go into too much detail about the cocktail composition itself, largely because I don’t know how to spell half of the ingredients, let alone know what they are. I wouldn’t want our dear readers to be under any misapprehension that I am in any way qualified to talk about drinks, bars or how to be cool. My advice: try them for yourself, you won’t regret it. As I repeatedly elucidated to our lucky dates re: the Leroy cocktail: "holy fuck, this drink tastes like a pudding". Seriously it tasted like a lemon mousse. And it gets you drunk.

One thing I do feel able to comment on with some authority is the presentation of the cocktails. Now I know that I’m a man who thinks fireworks are made by wizards and is still impressed by Art Attack, but I promise you that in spite of my own low threshold for amazement, these beverages are served with some panache. One drink came served with a flaming half coconut. The ‘Coalition’ cocktail was served in a pewter hip flask sitting on a bed of ice, trimmed with a few blades of corn in tribute to the grain whiskey we would have been drinking had this modern speakeasy not evolved to serve spirits which don’t turn you blind. If you don’t think that’s cool then you need have a good look in the mirror and reevaluate the decisions which led you to reading this nonsensical blog. If that look in the mirror hasn’t convinced you that this is cool then you’re either a) insane or b) cooler than me. Most likely the latter.

I mentioned that the spirits used today are actually fit for human consumption unlike those of the real prohibition. This brings me on to one of the things which sets this bar aside from the many other prohibition themed bars in this city. On request, and provided you remortgage your house, you can try genuine 1920's prohibition whiskey. Obviously most of us will never take advantage of this facility but, as I like to say to myself when buying condoms: ‘although I won't get the chance to use these, I feel happier knowing that they're there’.

*Our legal team has asked me to point out that my analysis of Start Trouble is based on speculation and an attempt to be funny rather than any musical knowledge or critical ability. We are not in any way endorsed by Mr. Trouble. He does sound fun though.

Bar Nightjar,
129 City Road,
London,
EC1V 1JB

0207 253 4101

www.barnightjar.com

The New Evaristo Club (AKA Trisha's)

The bars on this blog often have this sort of cultivated illicit charm, they’re hidden, but being hidden was always sort of part of the plan for them. All of them feature reasonably secluded entrances, a lack of fanfare and yet surprisingly superlative settings. Not so the New Evaristo Club, which looks like a particularly terrifying brothel in an Eastern European country that’s only just getting Westlife. 

All the other bars seem to have the ‘hidden entrance’ vibe so that Time Out will gush praise upon this ‘hidden nook’ seven years after it opened and starts getting filled with G-Star and V-necks so deep you can see pubes. The New Evaristo Club, however, seems to have done it because customers are nothing more than a real hindrance to the business of getting fucking melted in a basement.

The address is technically 57 Greek Street, I say technically because there’s nothing to indicate that this bleak little corridor leading off Greek Street is number 57, or indeed, that it’s anything more than the kind of place that you’d only go to if you didn’t mind coming away having become an accessory to the white slave trade.

Walk down the little corridor however (the threadbare red carpet and peeling white walls all add to exclusivity of the place) and head down the twisting staircase into the darkness and you’ll find another red door. Open it, and behold the New Evaristo Club in all its glory. Or all its squalor. Depends on your definition of glory really I suppose. I suppose the kind of glory that the New Evaristo Club bathes in is the same kind of glory that gives the phrase ‘Glory Hole’ its meaning.

Apparently, The New Evaristo Club is a ‘Member’s Club’ and there are stories of people being asked to sign in when they turn up. I have no idea what this actually means for the actual running of the place, because as far I can see it’s hardly fucking Dorsia and it’s never happened to me. Don't you love these in-depth insights we give you?

The walls are coated in magazine articles or posters or pictures or newspapers or something, I wish I knew, but unfortunately I don’t possess the power of echolocation and so the murky blackness in this particular basement bar defeated my only-human eyesight.

The service is something I can only describe as ‘Government-standard’. If you’ve ever been to the DVLA, or the Passport Office, or had to deal with bureaucracy of any sort, you’ll know what I mean: the customer is treated as if they’re nothing more than a chore. An unfortunate cog in the wheels of of running a consumer-driven business. I find this hilarious, and quite refreshing, especially as it means I don’t get called ‘Sir’, which makes my skin crawl when I hear it, and makes me think of myself as some sort of feudal Lord, acting like a dick and gorging myself on pheasant and chaffinch-stuffed kestrels while my serfs starve.

As you can imagine of the kind of place that’s hardly ‘consumer focused’ there are about three beers, a completely random selection of spirits that look like they’ve been bought in bulk as some sort of lucky dip after a fire in a warehouse, and a couple of bottles of wine. Mercifully, it’s pretty cheap and there’s pretty much always somewhere to sit.

Now, the elephant in the room here. I can’t really review this place without bringing it up. No, it’s not actually a brothel disguised as a bar disguised as a brothel. Something worse. There are rumours about that the New Evaristo Club is a Fascist bar. The thing is, I don’t know if this means that it’s Fascism-themed, or if it’s Fascist-sympathetic, and I’m not entirely sure if that’s a meaningful distinction. Also, more questions, how exactly does one run a Fascism-themed bar? Are all the drinks named after horrible dictators? Or every now and then someone’s taken out the back and arbitrarily shot? If you’ve got any answers to any of the above, or would just like someone to talk to, e-mail us (please someone e-mail us, we’re all such lonely lonely men).

There are bottles of wine with Hitler and Mussolini on them, and I’m assured that somewhere in the darkness there lurks a bust of Mussolini. I have absolutely no idea whether this a concerted effort on the behalf of the owners (which given everything else going on seems unlikely) or just a coincidence of the décor. (If anyone would like to see my band ‘Coincidence of the Décor’ please get in touch).

Anyway, the New Evaristo Club is grotty, hilarious, dark (in all senses of the word) and is thoroughly difficult to find. The New Evaristo Club is a bit like spending Christmas with your Grandad; once you get past the right-wing tendencies and gruffness, actually alright really. (Plus there’s a constant sort of unpleasant smell to it).

J. Clee

The New Evaristo Club,

57 Greek Street,

London

W1D 3DX

020 7437 9536

Bourne & Hollingsworth

If you’ve ever really wanted to have a cocktail with someone’s great-aunt in the parlour of her semi-detached house in Bolton in the 1950’s, then you’re a fucking fruitbat. You’re also in luck here. 

The main, and in fact only, room of Bourne & Hollingsworth looks like a particularly twee Northern front room from a simpler time. To play up to this fact, all the cocktails and mixed drinks are served in delicate china teacups, or jars or milk jugs or one of those by-now-familiar vessels that all cocktail bars use. The flowery wallpaper, quaint needlework designs on the wall, and chairs that look like they’re moments away from being examined by a man in a garish suit on daytime TV all combine to give Bourne & Hollingsworth an extremely surreal feeling.

Although initially this visual assault makes you feel like your eyes are throwing up into the inside of your head, it somehow sort of works. The lights are low enough that you don’t go blind from the clashing patterns and adds to the whole ‘I’m pretty sure I saw something similar to this re-enacted on Crimewatch’ vibe’.

At this stage, I know what you’re thinking; this is all very well and good, but how will people know how cool and urbane I am if this bar is easy to find? Well worry not, Bourne and Hollingworth is rather well hidden. Like all the bars on this blog so far, it sits underneath something laughably mundane. In this case; a cornershop (I know, we’re as annoyed as you are to have broken away from ‘under a kebab shop’, but there’s only so much we can do). On the corner of the street, there’s some sort of black and white faux-shop front that looks like a piece of evidence from a horror film set in an orphanage, and in front of that, a black metal staircase leading to the basement. Admittedly, the horror-film-wall-photo actually says ‘Bourne & Hollingsworth’, but don’t worry, it looks more like a piece of street art commissioned by someone’s rubbish Dad than the entrance to a bar.

Bourne & Hollingsworth does a very good job of hiding in plain sight; although it’s on a busy street, and even when the other pubs in the area are packed then there’re never more than a few people standing. It’s an intimate bar with a relaxed atmosphere, and it’s quirky and interesting enough to provide a conversation topic when you inevitably run out of things to say after the first thirty seconds of being there you fraud.

As I mentioned earlier, their speciality is cocktails, but there’s lagers on offer as well if you’d prefer a delicious lager. The prices are reasonable for a cocktail bar just off Oxford Street, but if you’re expecting to pay less than about four quid a drink then you’re sort of on the wrong blog to be honest. If we start another one called ‘Ale Pubs for Tight Bastards’ I’ll drop you an e-mail.

If I’m perfectly honest, I’ve never actually had a cocktail there, and all my companions have had wine or lager, so as much as I’d love to tell you how good the cocktails are, I’m at a loss. Although, even if I had tried one, any, or even all the cocktails, I’m a man who once ate a box of chalk thinking they were those delicious candy cigarettes so I don’t know if my judgement would be worth anything anyway.

Anyway, to sum up, Bourne & Hollingsworth is an interesting and different bar that looks like the inside of someone’s house, and it will definitely boost your kudos amongst impressionable people. Mission accomplished eh? If you want to prove to people you know about these hidden pockets of secret London then head here. Equally, if you’ve secretly got some sort of creepy fetish for drinking in what looks like an old woman’s flat then whatever you do, get some help you pervert.

As you can see from the high quality of this professionally-taken photograph; this blog is run by chancers. Also the interior of B&H. 

James Clee

Bourne & Hollingsworth
28 Rathbone Place
London
W1T 1JF

www.bourneandhollingsworth.com

020 7636 8228

Lounge Bohemia

Bohemia is either a 'historical region of the Czech Republic' or 'an area which contains a higher than usual proportion of unwashed people'. Lounges are supposedly cosy and relaxing. This is a darkened corridor hidden between the bleak kebab house; 'Corner Savoy', and an off-licence on the junction of

Great Eastern Street and Shoreditch High Street which seems like it could put off all but the dirtiest of bohemians. But do persevere...

Instead of being just some brothel, Lounge Bohemia will demonstrate to your guest that you truly are in touch with the rhythms of this city, and know all of its secluded recesses. Although of a similar ilk, it is also a step aside from the standard prohibition style bars that are edging into the mainstream. A no-standing and appointment only policy (which actually works) increases this mystique and your chances of impressing.

The only nod to the name, as you enter and descend the metallic staircase, is on the walls - plastered with newspapers. (‘Is that Czech?’ you say, wowing your date into thinking they’re hanging out with an intrepid polyglot). Once inside, the lounge part of the name becomes apparent. Any worries you

had on entry are washed away as you are shown to your little area, water is poured, welcoming nibbles are brought and you are left to discuss the fascinating menus revealed inside old hardback books. Unless you’re actually a polyglot I’m assuming your Czech language knowledge goes no further than recognising it, or at least pretending to after reading about it here. So keep quiet now. Keep to the pages with the menu on. No one likes a show off.

The room and its alcoves, which with a little less care could so easily have a hint of the serial killer’s dungeon about it, are the perfect arena for convincing someone that you know about the finer things in life. The lights are low, but not in a sinister 'I’m-going-to-get-you-in-the-dark' kind of way. The decor, despite being a cross between mid-century Eastern European brutalism and Matalan, is surprisingly aesthetically pleasing.

The drinks, and the small selection of gourmet canapés, really are some of the finer things in life. Cocktails range from subtly delicious, sublimely simple cocktails to extravagant and flamboyant pieces of performance art. Do remember to ask for a story if you get one of the special ‘Manipulative

Mixology’ cocktails.

The communal nature of some tables could be seen as a blessing or a curse. Your co-drinker could be put off by the cuddly couples in the seats next to you. Or, awkward looks may be sent your way when, suitably impressed by your savvy awareness of the London drinking scene, your date agrees to your proposition of 'making out' (I’d advise your letters of thanks to us to be anonymous just in case she looks on here for her next date venue only to discover you and make that next date with someone much cooler than yourself). So, judge or join in. Are you going to make someone else feel awkward, or feel awkward about someone else? Is your glass (or bible, test tube, or cigar case - all of which are used in Lounge Bohemia) half empty, or half full?

Either way, go to Lounge Bohemia and you’ll bask in the glory of others’ appreciation, wondering what Bohemia is actually like, and whether all the men there have such astonishing facial hair as the resident mixologist. All I know is, if Bohemia is anything like this I’m emigrating.

O.C

Lounge Bohemia
1E Great Eastern Street

Hackney

London

EC2A 3EJ

By Appointment – 07720707000

www.loungebohemia.com