Garlic & Shots

Some of you who have read this blog a few times before may have realised that the guys who write it have been slaughtered in cellars more times than the entire cast of the Saw films, and like the films; we’re showing no signs of stopping. Garlic & Shots is the perfect setting for even more of the same then, as this particular basement is dark, cramped and playing heavy metal: brilliant.

Now, you may be thinking that this is something of a departure from the hidden and often classy cocktail bars we tend to discuss. This is true, but I’m the kind of man who’s more at home in those pubs you find on industrial estates than those kinds of places so I felt more comfortable here. Plus, Garlic & Shots is actually pretty cool, in the same way there was that one guy in school who was cool even though everyone was a bit afraid of him and you’d heard a pretty unsavoury rumour about him involving a kestrel. 

As you may have guessed, Garlic and Shots is a bar that has a pretty obvious unique selling point, but just in case you’ve been drinking or you’re only glancing over this shoddily-written rubbish then I’ll spell it out. The garlic part of Garlic & Shots refers to the fact that all the food on the menu has garlic in. And I mean all; the website says ‘you can order more garlic, but never less’ so be prepared for that if you’re going there for dinner. 

However, this blog isn’t ‘places to go for dinner if you’re fucking terrified of vampires’, so we’ll move swiftly on to the ‘Shots’ element: Garlic & Shots has a menu of 101 shots, ranging from the fairly standard to the arguably criminal. Oh don’t worry though; quite a lot of the shots have garlic in them too. Say what you like about G&S, but they do exactly what it says on the tin. 

The front of the place is something of a drab affair, which only makes me like it more. When you’re wandering around Soho it’s nice to see a change from the endless parade of Pret a Mangers and cocktail bars with names like ‘Paradise’ and ‘Jewel’ that inexplicably are still in business despite the fact you never ever see anyone in them. A squat, grey little building sandwiched between two townhouses, there’s very little to say that Garlic & Shots is actually a bar, rather than say, a really pretentiously-named boutique or a greengrocer’s that’s decided to branch out into the firing-range game. 

When you go inside the ground floor is closer to a restaurant than a bar, but head through to the back and down the stairs into the basement. What you’re confronted with is the kind of thing I love: a dingy basement with a couple of tables in it and an extremely suspect drink menu. 

It’s not glamorous, and it’s not really very pretty, but it definitely all works. The metal that’s playing in the background only serves to add to the atmosphere and it’s absolutely perfect for getting fired up for the kind of night that ends up with you committing all Seven of the Deadly Sins, and possibly creating some brand new ones. 

When we turned up we had the Bloodshot, which was some sort of concoction involving tomato juice, chili and, quite obviously, garlic. Then we had some other delicious treat that may or may not have been the garlic honey vodka. Then some other things happened, which my recollection of is hazy at best, and then I woke up in a badger’s den in Victoria Park with someone else’s shirt on.

Garlic & Shots is the place to take people for some shots about halfway through a night. It’s really fun, and everyone likes the whole garlic thing, plus if you’re sensible about it, you could probably choose some of the shots that are actually ok. Ideally though, you need to hit it at that point when you’re so drunk that a shot called ‘Racing Oil’ sounds like a great idea. 

Finally, I'd like to sum up with the mantra of Garlic & Shots themselves, which speaks to me a lot: 'If it isn't fatal, it toughens your body'. Perfect. Although that does sort of lead me to believe that the guys who work there have never woken up a furious badger at 4:30am.

J. Clee

14 Frith Street, 
Soho, 
London 
W1D 4RD 

020 7734 9505

www.garlicandshots.com

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

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

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