The Old Fountain

In a gross overestimation of this blog’s popularity and with a somewhat overoptimistic view of the breadth of our readership, we had something of a crisis of conscience. With the 14 degree heat of the pale English sun blazing down on us like Promethean fire, we realised that most of the bars we send our readers to are in basement warrens which are more Watership Down than Alice in Wonderland. Our poor readers, who definitely use this blog as their only source of London drinking information, were going to have nowhere to sit outside with a Pimms in thick jumpers wishing they didn’t live in bloody England. Fortunately for all(/both) of you, we’re finally reviewing some places suitable for people who don’t suffer from acute Photodermititis.  We reckon that these will prove especially useful now that it’s even more damp outside my flat than in (a rarity) and the prospect of more sunshine seems as likely as a primary school teacher saying, "Today, children, we’re going to listen to Lost Prophets before watching Animal Hospital and if you’re well behaved then a local celebrity will fix it for you to have you dreams come true."

With that in mind I would like to introduce to the Old Fountain. It’s just off Old Street Roundabout and is easily recognisable from the fact that it looks just like all the other pubs in London which you don’t really want to go into for fear of being accosted by a drunk Scottish CAMRA member insistent on teaching you life lessons at 3pm on a Sunday. Don’t be put off and keep your eyes on the prize. Remember you’re here to get yourself a nice drink and enjoy it in the sunny spells of a lukewarm day. Even when you notice that the inside looks a bit like it might have been used on the set of Shameless or This is England, stay focussed on that nice refreshing lager that you’ll soon be enjoying. Even when you realise that for no ostensible reason there’s a fish tank which looks like its contents have been caught in Regent’s Canal, keep thinking about the tan that you’re probably/maybe/definitely not going to get after an afternoon on the...wait for it...roof terrace. That’s right, after 382 words of rambling nonsense, I’ve finally got to the point.

The Old Fountain has a perfect roof terrace for summer boozing. Due to something to do with weather, it catches the sun and stays sheltered from the wind. Handily, it also has umbrellas and heaters for those British summer days which one could easily mistake for the Arctic Tundra in December. 

Now, connoisseurs of the Shoreditch roof top bar scene, a) need to get a hobby and b) will know that there is another roof top bar a stone’s throw from the Old Fountain and might wonder why I’m not reviewing that one instead. I am, of course talking about the Golden Bee. I’ll finish this convoluted diatribe with a few notes on their comparative merits.

First off; reasons to go to the Golden Bee:

1. You can leave and go to the Horns strip pub directly underneath it.

I can’t think of any others so now onto reasons to go to the Old Fountain instead:

1. It’s not absolutely packed with trilby sporting half-wits and extras from The Only Way is Essex in white suits checking their watches to make sure they don’t miss the last train back to Romford. They’re all busy showing off their diamante ear studs to other people I never want to meet in the Golden Bee. In fact, the Old Fountain isn’t packed full of anyone. One of its main attractions is that the Londoners flocking to find a beer garden as soon the sun comes out, as if they’d spent the last few months trapped in a Chilean mine, don’t know about it;


2. The drinks selection is extraordinary. Yes it’s summer so most of you will order either Corona, Pimms or Bulmers which makes the variety of interesting inebriators on tap somewhat obsolete. Yes, rather than learn anything about food or drink we prefer to compensate for our own mediocrity by making snide, ill-thought remarks about CAMRA meetings. But, from what little sense I can glean from the mire of half-memories of my Sunday there, there was some pretty ok stuff at the bar. (That’s right Timeout, let’s see you come up with criticism as well observed and hard hitting as this);


3. You will never, ever see any of us in there. If you’ve met us you’ll understand why that’s a good thing. If you were there that fateful Sunday, you’ll understand why we’re about as welcome there as a hug in a burns unit. In the full knowledge that my mother is reading this and that our half-arsed attempts at anonymity have, like any other good idea we’ve ever had, failed completely, I will spare you most of the details. In short, we found the perfect summer pub. Let’s not ruin it by getting too drunk, we said. Let’s not throw stools around while we pretend to be spiderman like simple-minded overgrown man-children, we said. Let’s not help ourselves to pints from behind the bar, we said. Let’s not make out with each other for no reason, we said. Let’s not...I can’t, I’ve already said too much. 

Yeah we can’t go there anymore. You can. You should take advantage of that fact. Don’t make the same mistakes we did. Keep your clothes on. I’m so sorry.


The Old Fountain
3 Baldwin Street
London
EC1V 9NU

020 7253 2970

www.oldfountain.co.uk

Platform

On their website a quote boasts: ‘Platform Bar and Terrace at Netil House has the intimate atmosphere of drinks round a friend’s living room’. How many people, not including the writers at The Hackney Citizen, can honestly say that their friend’s living room is hidden away in a gutted council block, replete with an array of salvaged and luxuriant furniture. Not only that, but with ‘kooky artwork’ and graffiti on the walls and large windows offering a sepia tinted sunset view over the rooftops of East London towards The City. They do say ‘atmosphere’ rather than ‘replica’ or ‘scaled model’ but I’m not one for semantics so will swiftly move on. Also, I have very few friends, let alone any who would have something resembling a living room, so don’t have many scenarios to compare this to...

The important thing is that Platform is a great place to demonstrate that you still have that detailed knowledge of London’s drinking venues.

It is situated just a short walk from Broadway Market, one of the best (if most expensive) food markets in London during the weekend and a pleasingly independent shopping street during the week, and London Fields where some of this city’s rich and trendy show off their new found wealth from gorgeous terraced houses or shiny new build blocks which seem to laugh in the face of Hackney’s urban poor.

Not only is the location enough to catch anyone’s attention, but the building and setting itself will also be sure to impress your guests. Platform forms a focal point of the creative collective that is Netil House. This includes a warren of studios containing a wealth of different artistic endeavours, regular artistic events and rooftop parties, and Netil Market which takes inspiration from Broadway Market round the corner with a well selected group of in-vogue food carts (they also form part of a group which manages the interesting Hackney Downs Studios and The Russet Cafe).

The entrance lies between Netil House and the arches supporting the North Eastern railway between London Fields and Cambridge Heath. Hold your nerve and purpose as you saunter down the shingled path - you are now practiced in the art of persuading people to follow you into dark alleys.

Two bouncers wait by a door at the end. ‘Platform?’ they ask; half implying that you’re only here for part of the show, half that you are part of an exclusive group who know about such special venues as this. Reply with a confident yes, indicating to your guest that you form an integral part of that group, hiding who you truly are, while also leaving them tantalising evidence of the fact that you know Platform may not be the only thing on offer within and around Netil House.

You will be directed up a few empty flights of concrete stairs. Eventually you will reach the bar itself; you are greeted by this ‘living room’ atmosphere. And it is surprisingly warm despite the fact the most people there are aggressively trendy. We’re not only talking the limb-crushing jeans but styles which with a bit more extravagance and irony wouldn’t fall far short of Dan Ashcroft’s ‘Geek Pie’. At least they’ll provide a talking point when you inevitably run out of conversation and are beginning to lapse into half-overhearing Indigo pontificate about the pros and cons of her new healing crystals.

The smells from the open plan kitchen tempt drinkers toward to delicious looking Persian inspired menu. However due to a mixture of only having 85p left in my account (I spend it on trawling bars so you don’t have to – see how selfless I am) and the fact that I’m a genuine heathen and only wanted lager, I didn’t eat on this occasion.

The drinks are good: well selected but mostly unremarkable. Finally, now you are armed with your poison of choice, comes the coupe de gras. It is supplies the logic for the name, vindicates its place on this site and provides a purpose for the sun.

It would take a writer with more descriptive abilities than myself to explain how they managed to make a bit of open concrete attached to an old council building next to a railway seem attractive, but trust me it works.

Platform Bar and Terrace at Netil House is the place to be, whether that’s relaxing in the calming cafe atmosphere during the day, soaking up the rays on the terrace, or flailing about like an eel (that is how to dance, right?) later on in the evening. Jokes aside, I know I’d certainly get a return ticket.

O.C

Platform Cafe,Bar,Terrace.
2ndFloor,
Netil House,
1-7Westgate Street,
London
E8 3RL

0203 0959713

www.platformlondonfields.com

Underdog

‘Speakeasy’ is a word used to describe London bars more often than the words ‘idiot’, ‘prick’, and ‘get out of my house’ are used to describe me. I won’t do Underdog the disservice of lumping them in with all the highly pedestrian suit-havens of the capital by describing it as such. It deserves better than that. Unfortunately, I’m borderline illiterate and can’t think of another way to say it’s a slightly-hidden bar under another bar.

Look, basically it’s the cocktail bar under Brewdog’s new pub in Shoreditch.

There appears to be no door policy at all when you go to the ominously cordoned-off and guarded stairs in the middle of the main bar and ask if you can visit the Underdog. I mean, they let us idiots in: genuine class-A morons who spent five minutes milling about in a corridor because we couldn’t find the door.

Once you’ve mastered getting through the actually-pretty-bloody-obvious door, stop and take in your surroundings. As you look around, much like when I look back at my behaviour over the weekend, it’s best not to ask ‘why?’. You’ll just upset yourself: 'Why are there so many dead animals? Why is there a voodoo corner? Why is there a box of hair?' At this point I wish we had some photos on this blog because I realise I’ve just made one of my favourite bars sound like the set of a Stanley Kubrick remake of the Human Centipede. It’s not. I promise it’s nice. I went there with actual women. They didn’t hate it.

I think that the disjointed lunacy of the decor can probably be attributed to the ‘I don’t give a fuck what society thinks’ attitude which permeates the entire Brewdog venture. That’s what takes it from creepy to really fucking cool; a feat I’ve never accomplished myself. Brewdog is ‘Beer for Punks’ brewed by two guys who decided to sacrifice every penny of credit available to them on the altar of ‘let’s make beer that we like more than other beer’. Brewdog is the sort of bold venture that people like me write about because we’ll never be cool enough to do something that awesome ourselves. If this is the first you’ve heard of them I strongly suggest that you Google the following:

‘Tactical Nuclear Penguin’
‘Brewdog/Speedball/Nanny State’
and
‘how do I get out of this box I’ve been living in for the last five years?’

Obviously I love the whole punk thing because I was once at the beating heart of the modern punk movement. That is to say I went to Rancid gig. It was raining so I wore a sensible waterproof coat and I left quite early because I lost the phone which I had recently acquired on a generous but affordable tariff which made me sad. This gave me some time to reflect on the tattoos I don’t have. Yeah I’m not a punk. Most punks are smelly and scary and fortunately this bar is neither. It just wants to be your friend.

I realise that I’ve been building this place up a lot so I’d like to take a moment to reassure you. These guys have not ‘done a Proud’ and fallen off the cool cliff into the pretentious-and-wanky pit. You won’t feel out of place because you don’t own a pair of jeans so tight that getting a semi fills you with an all-consuming dread. As I said, this bar wants to be your friend. It also, much like my beloved Camden Town Brewery, wants you to be able to drink some really delicious beer. Their beer is so delicious, in fact, that we broke House Rule #72 ('Only drink lager if it’s warm and flat and has preferably been open for a few days') and ordered a case of it.

Here’s the really good thing about Underdog. While I am perfectly happy to drink myself into oblivion on lager and IPA alone, I understand that many of you like to drink these new-fangled fancy cocktail things. This presents a problem because the cocktail tends to be to beer what responsibility and consequences are to me: an absolute fucking nemesis. Finding a good cocktail in the same establishment as a good beer is about as likely as finding Salman Rushdie sunning himself on the beaches of the Persian Gulf.

In classic Brewdog ‘fuck this noise, I’m going to sort this shit out’ fashion, Underdog has produced a range of cocktails based on beer and cider. With beer reductions and other fancy chemistry which is an absolute mystery to me going on I started to get scared and calmed myself down with another three pints of the Dead Pony Club Pale Ale. My friends that did try the cocktails were full of praise though. At least I think they were, by this stage I was hearing colours.

Brewdog themselves say the following about their bars:

‘We are not cool. We are not pretentious. We just care. And we are your friends.’

Well, Mr B. Dog, I’ll be the judge of whether or not you’re cool. I don’t know if you heard but I’m a pretty cool guy. I don’t avoid buying skinny jeans because they’re a bit uncomfortable. I didn’t just come back from a holiday in Center Parcs. I never apologised to a police dog because I couldn’t be its friend. None of those things.

Ok, I’m not even remotely cool. Underdog is. Go there.
BrewDog Shoreditch
51-55 Bethnal Green Road,
London,
E1 6LA

0207 729 8476

www.brewdog.com

Passing Clouds

Passing Clouds is, more than anything (and more than can be said of their Dalston Cola), refreshing. I can’t think of a venue like it – and if you can then a) You’re a better person than me b) Could you show me where it is, please? And c) You should be writing this, not me.

Passing Cloud’s greatest strength is its variety – though at a base level most nights there do tend to involve too much drink and relentless hours of dancing at and around other people (don’t all?). As a man who thinks most clubs are mainly a louder and more annoying form of places where you jostle about next to other people you don’t know – like lifts, or Bank station at rush hour – this would not normally appeal. Passing Clouds, however, seems to be imbued with the spirit of misrule, which somehow makes this all you want to spend your time doing there. If this is not the effect it has on you, then reassess your life-choices – or for god’s sake have a detox and reinvigorate your relationship with serotonin.

I still think that Nirvana are cutting edge and am just as likely to kill any mood by playing Burial as by blaring out Slayer so I am in no way qualified to judge any venue’s selection of music, whether positively or negatively. However, there is something in the atmosphere here that means whatever is chosen is somehow, at that exact moment, the only thing that could possibly make you want to writhe, gyrate and jump around more intensely and for longer than before. A combination of this and the structure, not to mention the decorations, which could have been put together by someone blasted forward in time from the 60s in full flow, conspires to give Passing Clouds a sense of near free-fall fun.

Passing Clouds manages to cause such chaos, that if anarchy was transformed into an evening on the town, it would be here. Recollecting the next day (or a few days later, if it was a particularly big one or you woke up in Bracknell and had to make a confusing journey home), no one story of the night seems the same, and each small group seems to have just missed out on the most obscene aspect of the other’s evening.

It is situated just behind The Haggerston - an excellent choice for a few drinks before venturing into Passing Clouds - off an increasingly less bleak stretch of Kingsland Road. Once you’ve decided to enter into this vortex of a club, you can exclaim - ‘Look the entrance to this club is near where some bins are’, and all of a sudden the entourage you have collected from visiting the other bars on this blog will, almost now jaded, once again bow down to your superior judgement. The best way to demonstrate its combination of variety and chaos at this point is by discussing a recent visit. 

Since the ground floor was yet to be opened, we climbed up the stairs to the second. This is at times a pleasant escape from the mayhem downstairs – though I have recently seen someone pirouette through a table. On this occasion, despite being calm it was unnervingly so, and we soon discovered the reason why. We appeared to have stumbled into a rerun of the bleakest entrants to Britain’s Got Talent; witnessing a surreal and disturbing puppet show re-enactment/parody of certain Shakespeare plays. It was the perfect tone to begin an absurd evening.

Aside from the obligatory intense motion, and the occasional burst of reality brought on by a cigarette break, the night soon blended into a stream of mostly unconnected images. One clear thought was however, having seen them casually reclining at the bar, that someone had just decided to bring their albino python on a night out. Apparently this was Missy Fatale and her companion in a burlesque act, which I sadly missed.* I cannot escape from the fact that, having seen this creature, I was genuinely concerned that I would wake up adrift somewhere with my name and other useless details tattoed to the snake – fortunately that was not the case, unless I’m still dreaming.

Despite the clear attraction of this, Passing Clouds is not solely about such nights: is a multi-purpose venue and community project. There have been salsa classes, spoken word events and many more, on a busy and diverse schedule, while on Sundays they hold a regular community kitchen. While these are interesting aspects of the venue and all add to its allure, this is a blog about cool bars to show off with, and not a blog about where to take your difficult vegan friend, so you can understand why I haven’t focussed on them. Now, back to the getting drunk bit...

It can be difficult to get in due to the queues, and it is a bit steeply priced as nights out go. There is also the issue that not everybody will get along with its hippie leanings and laissez-faire attitude. I have also never been to a place where such a high percentage of people never stop smiling, which at the same time as being endearing can also be slightly draining for someone who loves to hate as much as myself.

However, I know that I would rather go here and jostle about with freaks that I can put up with, and join in with, than go to Movida, Mahiki, or another generic trash-heap and pay £5 for some water to be near people I hate, listening to the same music as the last time I went there by mistake.

I’d say I want go to Passing Clouds every weekend, but I know that if I did I would eventually explode.

*Dear Missy Fatale, I’m so sorry if I tried to touch the snake’s head more than once, despite being told not to. I know it was foolish, but he was so creamy and alluring.
O.C

Passing Clouds 1 Richmond Road
London
E8 4AA

020 7241 4889

www.passingclouds.org

The Mayor of Scaredy Cat Town

If through some bizarre impulse you choose to go to a bar reviewed on this blog, God bless you. However, if this is the one you choose, you may need the patience of Penelope waiting for the return of Odysseus.

The fundamental flaw of The Mayor is that it just isn’t the secret it’s supposed to be. The first time I attempted to impress someone by revealing what lay behind that ‘inconspicuous’ SMEG fridge in the Spitalfields Breakfast Club, I was disappointed. I was informed that there would be at least a two hour wait. There was no way I was going to keep someone’s attention for that long without the numerous conversational crutches which I’d hoped this quirky bar would provide.

Fortunately, this led me to the discovery of Lounge Bohemia, so all was for the best on that occasion. Others, however, have not been so lucky. I have heard of people nonchalantly asking at the bar whether the Mayor was ‘in’ (as was the rumoured approach), only to receive a firm ‘no’ as a response. Reeling and with a very confused date who had so far been kept in the dark, another ‘cool’ destination would have to be found to salvage the evening. Without the help of this blog I’m assuming their night ended with them, alone except for some crayfish, slurping up some canal water. Or is that just me?

Maybe sick of validating smarmy wankers with a response of ‘yes, he is’, things appear to have changed. Now, you’ll have to queue like everyone else waiting outside Infernos on a Friday night, or if it’s slightly less busy take a seat with a drink upstairs while you wait. Like a pleb.

So, the essential feelings which you will experience as you attempt to get into this bar are confusion, disappointment and inadequacy – though normal sensations for us, they are not ideal for showing off your own innate knowledge of London’s underground bar scene. But maybe you thrive off this.

If you trust your conversational ability more than I do: go ahead and wait. Finally, after demonstrating the patience of a saint you will be chaperoned through the fridge door, following the sign which reads ‘Thrills’, and down into the kitsch bar area. The Mayor of Scaredy Cat Town is finally revealed: It’s a bar, which serves drinks and has people drinking those drinks in it.

I judged someone instantly when I heard them discussing excitedly what could be behind the fridge door. This excitement reached another level when they were finally led down to the bar area. Maybe I’m just too jaded for the experience, but it seemed that the anticipation had kept them going throughout the wait, and that they were genuinely not sure what to expect. I’m not suggesting I’m a savant, but this does seem to impress the sort of people that think All Bar One is an okay destination for a post-work drink and that you probably need a passport to go anywhere in Hackney. During your time in The Mayor there is a strong chance that you will be stuck with a combination of such people and, if you’re lucky a group of ‘ballers’ who’ve stumbled in from the nearby City: not the ideal demographic to give you the validation you desperately crave.

It is an understandably difficult tightrope to tread if you intend to run a profitable speakeasy-style bar in London: too secret and the bar fails, too public and it’s not a secret. A victim of its own publicity, location and fame, The Mayor falls foul of this paradox. It is yet another ‘secret’ bar which somehow manages to belie its secret location by telling absolutely everyone exactly where it is.

How can I justify reviewing it on this blog, then? Bear with me...

The Mayor of Scaredy Cat Town is the paradigm of what this blog is searching for: it is a ‘cool’ bar brimming with uncool people attempting to impress other uncool people. Also, at a base level it is a very good venue. It is symbolic of the mainstream success achieved by London’s bustling, ‘underground’ drinking revolution.

I’m more than happy to spend an evening downing £3, flat lagers at the Woodberry Tavern or doing something obscure in The Dolphin (another couple of candidates for London’s most desolate drinking venues). However, sometimes occasion calls for something slightly more pleasant – although I was disappointed that the cat food advertised was not actually real cat food, knowing my penchant for a bit of Whiskas to go with a few cocktails. Catch The Mayor at the right moment and you are guaranteed to impress. Grab the lounge chairs in the furthest corner of the bar, take advantage of the attentive table service, and lose long hours to the delights of its cocktail list (among one of the best in London). Savour the kick from a chilli and lemongrass margarita, or the fruity explosion of the Alpine Fizz. Try out the ‘Basil No Faulty’ or the ‘Posh Paddington’. How could you not be tempted by that?

Best thing of all is that you are warned not to exit through the fridge, but back out through the toilets. You are implored to leave with your flies down to give the impression that you’ve just been to the loo rather than a trendy bar. This is perfect if you’re like me and that normally describes you anyway.

Remember to make some quip to the staff about ‘it must be really chilly working inside a fridge’ on your way out: they really like it when you do that.
O.C

12-16 Artillery Lane,
London,
E1 7LS

0207 078 9633

www.themayorofscaredycattown.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

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