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