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

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

Wilton's Music Hall

Even the most inattentive reader of this blog will notice that the majority of bars which we have reviewed are either underground or, to some extent, hidden. They have been designed or set up in such a way in order to lure in idiots like us and trick us into thinking that they are cool by validating our need to be that little bit different; to know that little bit more than everybody else. 

Wilton’s Music Hall, ‘the city’s hidden stage’, has all of this in abundance. The alley in which it is found does not show up on Google maps – making it the equivalent, to some Londoners, of the places on medieval maps where waterfalls tumble off the edge of the world and dragons roam free from the realms of logic. True to form, one person we were meeting there was found circling the area like a homing pigeon without a home. Clearly, then, it is secret enough to fit the bill.

It is the world’s oldest surviving Grand Music Hall and people have been drinking on the premises for hundreds of years. It has been providing Londoners with an ever-evolving range of on trend activities and drinking for longer than most. While some bars hark back to this forgotten age, Wilton’s is a relic of it. The location, design and history of Wilton’s give it an advantage over other bars which attempt to give off a similar image. The Mahogany Bar and The Green Room do not need to try to be cool bars; they are by virtue of their heritage. As a venue Wilton’s speaks for itself: it hasn’t covered up or overexposed the history – it is just a working venue that has risen from its knees to being able to strike a difficult balance in making this precious space available for the public’s enjoyment in a number of different forms, and preserving it for future generations.     

Wilton’s is situated on Graces Alley,  and lies a short walk east of Tower Hill or Aldgate, past railway-arch carwashes which look like they’d be willing to wash anything out of your car (think Reservoir Dogs or Pulp Fiction dimmed by the gritty ‘reality’ of ‘Police Camera Action!’). Pass alleyways which, although clearly built in the sixties and covered in graffiti less inventive than the cocktail menu in a B@1, someone even less convincing than us might claim are the same streets in which Jack the Ripper committed his most heinous crimes.   

Once you find the venue, you are struck by the beautiful exposed brickwork, which any kooky East-End bar would kill for but can only mimic, and a couple of battered wooden doors with gaslights hanging above them. Here you can finally begin to imagine a world before poured concrete and post-modern despair.

  

What makes the bars at Wilton’s all the more impressive is the fact that they are merely a sideshow to the main act – the music hall itself. Not only can you show off the fact that you are aware of the coolest places in London to drink, but also that you are sensitive to the historic fabric of the city. All the while (as all things vainly strive to) validating your colossal alcoholism by tricking yourself into thinking it’s for a good cause. 

While Wilton’s would still be cool if it served tepid, flat Fosters, and while that is much closer to our standard poison, it offers a range of drinks which would almost be enough to make a harrowing suburban Wetherspoons worth visiting. The Mahogany Bar serves a twist on the selection of quality ales, lagers and ciders which have become essential to any cool London bar. From cider that is not spelled like cider and doesn’t quite taste of the piss you get in milk cartons in The West Country to beer made somehow more delicious by the fact it has sediment in the bottom, the selection on offer will allow you to impress yet again by demonstrating that you don’t only drink lager flavoured water. If you have been seen through so far, head upstairs to The Green Room and try some of their speciality cocktails which run on a seasonal menu (because where doesn’t). If you want to get weird with some mezcal (cf. Mezcaleria Quiquiriqui) try The Old Curtain, or if you want to be creative (and they actually have the ingredients) try The New World Alexander which somehow manages to create a cocktail out of the ingredients of a half decent soup. 

Another aspect of Wilton’s which sets it aside is their offering of aperitivo on week nights - originally a Milanese tradition containing a selection of free light bite-sized snacks. I’m not a food critic (or a drinks one for that matter), so won’t comment on the nature of the nibbles beyond saying that it was nice and I liked it lots. Since I’m a savage I found it difficult to grace the fine line between politely grazing and stuffing my face, and definitely veered towards the latter. It’s an extra social nicety which just adds to the whole experience.  

Of course, this should fit in well with the apparent British love of social niceties. We love queuing and we would never think to disturb the man dying on a tube escalator. However, this is a trend yet to catch on in London (watch this space). If I was being kind I would say that it hasn’t been a hit due to our weather: using that logic it’s impossible to eat inside. In reality it’s probably because too many of us are busy chucking too many pints into empty bellies waiting for the inevitable chippy or kebab binge on the bleary way home. Or this, combined with bars being too tight to consider the pleasure of their customers over that extra percent on their profit margins. Whatever the true reason, it’s unfounded, as aperitivo works an absolute dream at Wilton’s and any wise bar should follow their lead.   

Wilton’s is a breath of fresh air and has an unpretentious crowd devoid of the cock-stifling jeans so often seen in the area. It is the sort of suave and sophisticated place that you might have imagined you’d be going to when you entered early adulthood or later, having finally grown up to appreciate life’s more subtle pleasures. Go here at least once to add sheen to the bleak reality that you’re stuck in a cycle of doing the same things, as I found out when I muttered on the way out,  ‘all I want is a filthy kebab and a can of Red Stripe’ – ruining such a pleasant hiatus in the real world of cultured and functioning humans. 

O.C With thanks to Katie from KBfoodphotos for photos, company, indulging morons like us and generally making this blog a lot less rubbish. You can follow her @kasiakatie.

Wilton's Music Hall
1 Graces Alley
London
E1 8JB

020 7702 2789

www.wiltons.org.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

Cellar Door

Trying to get women to accompany you into a public toilet? We all know that game. With this bar they might actually enjoy it.

It’s a cocktail bar. In a public toilet. The drinks make me think there may still be some good in the world. If you need to read more you haven’t understood this blog.

We’re not going to pretend that this is a hidden gem that only the people who were starting to hit Clapton while we all thought Camden was cool can find. Even Timeout have heard of it. Then again, you’re standing on Aldwych, the Waldorf is expensive and packed to the rafters with underwhelming salads, and your options for cool, edgy or otherwise not rubbish are as few and far between as women in my bedroom. That’s where this bar finds its niche.

Down some stairs into a disused public toilet, you feel like you could be heading into Lewis Carroll’s Wonderland if Through the Looking Glass was written by George Michael. Seriously though, you will rarely feel as cool as you do, seeing the crowds of theatre-land stare at the entrance with an apprehensive curiosity akin to the first time you heard house music, as you stroll down the steps with the confidence of Adele at the Brit Awards.

As a man whose taste in drink is generally confined to warm, flat lager I’m not well placed to tell you about mixology and other cocktail witchcraft, however, I can assure you that these drinks are pretty damn good. I’ll take a Kronenbourg over a Csomopolitan any day of the week but anyone who buys me one of these is welcome to my hand in marriage (or at least a short and disappointing relationship). This bar makes the horror of absinthe seem like William Shakespeare’s summer’s day: lovely and temperate. And they have popcorn.

The cocktail list is extensive and, unlike almost all other cocktail lists, not one of them sounds weird and horrible. There’s a reason why ‘classic’ cocktails get the luxury of being prefaced with ‘classic’; they’re very tasty. As a great philosopher once said: “if it ain’t broke don’t mess about with newfangled rubbish”. The cocktail wizard at Cellar Door has taken this advice to heart and the bulk of the menu sticks to old favourites. Divided by alcohol group you can choose whether you want paint stripper or sweet ambrosia in your cocktail. Disclaimer: by paint stripper I do mean a really nice gin as opposed to an even nicer gin. 

For those of you who, like me, will try something new for the sake of having tried something new, irrespective of the merits or consequences, the house cocktails and seasonal specials are delicious enough that you’ll go to sleep content even if you don’t end up making the world better with whichever date you’ve persuaded to accompany you that night. You alcoholic adventurers might also consider the options of replacing the vermouth in you martini with whisky or even absinthe. All in all the menu offers you a range of tipples which you’ll want to drink rather than drinking because you think it makes you look cool. Disclaimer: they will also make you look cool.

Experienced cocktail drinkers will understand the difference between a Southside and a Mojito. They’re both minty and limey and topped up with soda. Expecting to be underwhelmed I ordered a ‘Southside Royale’. Having experienced the crushing disappointment of the realisation that Burger King’s Chicken Royale is actually just a chicken burger, I was expecting nothing more than some limey, minty soda water with a hint of anti-freeze.

Cometh the hour cometh the drink. A waitress wearing angel wings places my cocktail on the table. A few pints deep, taste buds numbed by nicotine, I’m expecting nothing. I take a sip because it’s there and it has booze in it and I’m worried that I might sober up. But what’s that? Surely not. Are they wantonly flaunting the line between genius and the kind of idiocy that only people like me can normally achieve? They are. Dear reader, they have replaced the soda with Champagne.

I’m going to repeat: this bar is not only in a public toilet but they substitute soda water for champagne. If you need to read more you really haven’t understood this blog.

Cellar Door,
Zero Aldwych,
London
WC2E 7DN

020 7240 8848

www.cellardoor.biz

Mezcaleria Quiquiriqui

Mezcaleria Quiquiriqui ticks all the right boxes for impressing people with your years-old, innate and complex relationship with ‘the Big Smoke’. Whereas really we both know that it’s more a symbol of your innate relationship with lazily trawling the internet in the middle of the night and bleak 4am wanks.

The entrance to this place is harder to find than a shiny Charizard, and we all know what a nightmare that is. The actual address is 184 Hackney Road because it technically sits directly beneath a kebab shop (gritty, huh?). However, the entrance is down an alley next to it called Hassard Street. 

Hassard Street looks like the kind of alley that you can easily imagine smothered in POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS tape with ashen-faced pathologists staggering out of it.

This all adds to your image as not only a suave, sophisticated character but also as some sort of earthy, street-smart urban cowboy. At the end of Hassard Street is a door with a bouncer standing outside what looks like a corridor from a Stanley Kubrick film. Go down there and through the misshapen, warped, peeling doors and you’ll find a lowly-ceilinged, dark, cramped little cellar: perfect. 

There’s usually a DJ playing live music that sounds quite interesting. Then again, that really doesn’t matter because if you had reasonable taste in music you’d know actual interesting places and wouldn’t be needing tips from an internet blog to impress women. 

When you get to the bar, there’s a flipbook of individual cards with a description of each of the shots on it. They’re all exactly the same. They all taste like a mixture of Windolene and whooping cough.

Also, be aware that you’re not meant to shot them, even though you’ll want to. Apparently the proper way to drink mezcal is make absolutely sure that it completely destroys your entire throat and sits heavily in your stomach like over-aggressively siphoned petrol.

Quite a good thing about this place as well is the level of ceremony that comes with the mezcal. As if to apologise to you that they’re charging you £4.50 per shot for the kind of thing that would level even the hardiest of tramps, you also get (for some reason) a slice of orange sprinkled with chili powder. Now admittedly, that sounds fucking mental, and it sort of is, but it also sort of works, plus it adds to the whole ‘new experience’ vibe that’s going on here, plus you can pretend you totally know what’s going on.

So there you have it; Quiquiriqui is actually – on top of being a secret kerosene dungeon – is actually a really good bar with great staff. However, its primary usage is, obviously, to try and show off how cool you are. If you’re trying to convince people you’re cool, then meeting them here will make you skyrocket in their estimations. However, six mezcal in, when you’re trying to fight a window and speaking in tongues then you’re pretty much beyond redemption. It’s just a venue mate.

James Clee

www.quiquiriqui.co.uk

184 Hackney Road,
Hackney,
London
E2 7QL