House of Wolf boldly describe themselves as: ‘a multi-sensory experimental pleasure palace’. We were keen to see whether it could live up to the hype.
This blog was born out of a hatred of shit bars rather than an appreciation of good ones and I have been looking forward to my first opportunity to go to town on some overrated shitheap. Unfortunately my first mercilessly scathing review is going to have to wait because Carlsberg don’t do cocktail bars but, if they did, they would be nothing like House of Wolf’s because Carlsberg is horrible and House of Wolf is great.
There seems to be something of a trend in London for serving caipirinhas and mojitos at 15 quid a pop to guys in suits rutting around Barrio East braying about how expensive their drinks are and, ergo, how fucking great they are. Well, I’d like to begin by assuring you that House of Wolf bucks this trend like water over a bridge.
Recently, we visited East London’s third best Lewis Carroll themed cocktail bar. I won’t do them the disservice of naming it, but it begins with 'C' and ends with ‘allooh Callay’. It won’t be featuring on this blog because I tend to assume that if nothing positive stands out in the sporadic memory-bytes of a heavy night, the bar was probably fairly pedestrian. That said, having sifted through the haze of broken images in my head-box, I remember a prolonged altercation with a barman in which he refused to serve me a ‘Lady Boy’ (if you don’t know what that is I suggest you start watching I’m Alan Partridge). In fairness, it was perhaps not the most fashionable order. But get over yourselves. I had done everything that this half-heartedly Jabberwocky-themed twat-den had asked of me: re-mortgaged my house to pay for their horrible Estonian lager; put up with rubbing shoulders with the self-entitled wankers that make up their clientele; not punched anyone in the face. I don’t think it was too much to ask for them to produce a couple of Lady Boys when, however bat-shit mental that may be, that is what I wanted.
House of Wolf, in stark and refreshing contrast, will produce anything you want. But that isn’t it. Their entire staff have been trained by the Delphic Oracle to produce the drink you want most in the world based on the most vague of instructions. With instructions such as, ‘he only likes lager and fags, what can you do?’ and, ‘can I have something that tastes of despair in a good way?’, they will work their magic. The result is a drink that is so much better than what you thought you wanted that it will make you question your ability to ever decide what’s in your own best interests ever again. Of course, I’ve never been able to get even the slightest inkling as to what my own best interests are so I’m rather hoping that I can hire one of their bar staff as my carer because I can't be trusted and it seems they know what's best.
Once you’ve had a bespoke cocktail and decided that you trust the bar staff with your taste buds, sobriety and credit card, I would strongly suggest an alcoholic experiment in the ‘Apothecary’. The House of Wolf’s Apothecary is the forum that inspired J.K. Rowling’s portrayal of potions classes, discovered what Tiggers really like and is the alma mater of Professor Wheeto. And that’s all true (it isn’t). Never has numbing your mind with hard liquor entailed such a degree of artistic merit as it does when exploring the Apothecary cocktail list. With everything from popping candy to Szechuan flowers making up the ingredients, the cocktails are a sensory experience akin to losing your virginity: excitement; followed by confusion; followed by euphoria; followed by a nagging regret that you finished it so quickly; followed by a lifelong desire to do it again and again.
At this point I should mention that, because I’m a child and I only like new shiny things, I never made it past the Apothecary cocktail list. Can you blame me? They’re served with edible desert islands and blocks of cheese. However, the other writers on this blog moved on to the House Cocktail list. They’re idiots so the only feedback I could get was ‘I want to go for a kebab on the way home’. However, had they spent more of their lives training to be sommeliers and less getting drunk behind bins I’m sure they would have said something like: ‘I enjoyed some creative twists on the classics as well as some totally new flavours. They were a pleasure to drink and came at a very reasonable price’.
Of course, you don’t always want a cocktail that is infused with black pudding, designed by NASA and produced by Gandalf (actually, I do, I want to stay there and never leave). Sometimes you just want one of the classics. House of Wolf’s non-exhaustive list of classic cocktails, all at £7.50, with a promise to make anything that isn’t on the list, is exactly how classic cocktails should be done. I like a Martini as much as the next man, but I don’t like B@1 bar staff pretending that there’s anything complex about making one.
What makes House of Wolf great is the imagination and creativity that goes, not only into their cocktails, but into everything they do. From the decor to the food menu the House of Wolf offers something new and different and borderline arousing to the London overindulgence scene. Of course, we didn’t try the food because we’re kebab-munching pikeys.
What makes House of Wolf the best cocktail bar in London is that all of this comes without an ounce of pretension. With cocktail ingredients listed as ‘some stuff from the garden’, vintage Placebo and Bloodhound Gang playing through the speakers and staff who are happy to indulge idiots like us, the whole set up is a relaxed and enjoyable beacon of hope in the all-too-wanky London drinking scene.
Well done, and can I come and live in you?
181 Upper Street,
Islington,
London
N1 1RQ
020 7288 1470
www.houseofwolf.co.uk
Wednesday, 13 February 2013
Wednesday, 6 February 2013
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
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
Wednesday, 30 January 2013
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
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
Wednesday, 23 January 2013
The Camden Town Brewery
If you’ve taken the time to
read some of the other gibberish which I’ve inflicted on this blog you may have
noticed a trend for cocktail bars. We think cocktail bars are great. They
provoke reactions such as ‘Wow, I had no idea this place existed!’, ‘This drink
tastes like a pudding’ and ‘Oh great. Another date in Nightjar...’. You may
also have noticed an underlying resentment at the amount of time I spend in
cocktail bars. Unfortunately for me (and anyone I’m dating) social norms and a
total inability to wow people with my dazzling conversation dictate that I have
to go to swanky cocktail bars in the hope that the setting will distract from
the crushing inanity of 2 hours in my company.
In all honesty, I’m not a
huge fan of cocktails, they may look nice but they leave me broke and
disappointed at the end of the night. I much prefer a nice dirty lager, it’s
cheap and what it lacks in presentation it more than makes up for in
convenience. Funnily enough, I wrote something weirdly similar on our sister
blog ‘my lack of sex life for people who couldn’t care less’.
This blog would be as dull as
it was brief if it was called ‘my favourite places to drink with my friends
(both of them)’. However, if it was, the Camden Town Brewery would be near the
top of my list. So please forgive some self-indulgence because, while it may
lack hidden doorways and a cocktail list like a Tolkien novel, the Camden Town
Brewery is a very cool bar.
The brewery, which produces
its beers under the railway arches near Kentish Town West, does a great line in
pale ales, wheat beers and lagers. Now I’ll be the first to defend British beer, but
more often than not I want something crisp and refreshing rather than some dishwater served in a handle under the pretence of being ‘real ale’. This is really
where the brewery finds its niche – finally we have some interesting beers
which can be served cold and sparkling without the need to look to Germany, the
USA or, heaven forbid, Belgium*. 
Hats off to the Camden Hells Lager for saving
me from yet more nights of Red Stripe and Fosters. This will no doubt offend
the purists who read the minutes of CAMRA meetings and think that anything that
doesn’t taste like soil isn’t a beer. If you find that the Camden Pale Ale
lacks the necessary undertones of mud and gravel I can recommend the London
Fields Brewery - where all the beers taste like compost. The only beer I would
exercise some caution over is a stout called Camden Ink. I feel a bit bad for
criticising it, I mean I couldn’t sue them for false advertising. I guess that
when I ordered a pint of ink, I was hoping that they would take it slightly
less literally. While parker pen cartridges aren’t generally a key component of
my preferred tipples, if you’re a big fan of stout give it a go. Also feel free
to send me hate mail telling me how wrong I am and how delicious Ink is.
‘What the fuck did you buy
seven arches for? You know we only have 4 customers?’
‘Meh, fuck it, I’m sure we’ll
think of something, how about dodgems?’
Fortunately, they haven’t gone the way of Proud and used the excess room as ‘art space’ so that overprivileged kids in red trousers can get in touch with their creative side and show how in touch with London’s arty underbelly they are. Instead, the nice folk at the Camden Town Brewery decided to tack a bar onto the end of their brewery. Unpretentious and simple, it’s everything I want from a bar: nice beer, brewed 10 yards from the tap,
served by staff who like what
they do at a price that doesn’t require the backing of a trust fund.
So that’s the Camden Town
Brewery - if you met someone in 151 King’s Road and are looking to impress them
on a date, don’t come here (or anywhere else I drink). On the other hand, it’s
a great little place to take your mates (or the mythical lager girl who thinks
that watching the Six Nations is a perfect way to have some couple time). In
doing so you will ensure that your chosen company sees just how cool you are
with your expertise in lesser known London drinking venues. If you go on a
Thursday they will even give you a tour of the rest of the brewery - I have
always found that tours are a good way to further high-functioning alcoholism
in the name of education. The same thing could be said of writing for this blog.
(*Fuck Belgium)
The Camden Town Brewery,
55-59 Wilkin Street Mews,
London
NW5 3NN
0207 485 1671
Wednesday, 16 January 2013
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
Wednesday, 9 January 2013
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
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
Thursday, 27 December 2012
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.
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).
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).
W1D 3DX
020 7437 9536
Wednesday, 5 December 2012
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.
Bourne & Hollingsworth
28 Rathbone Place
London
W1T 1JF
www.bourneandhollingsworth.com
020 7636 8228
Wednesday, 28 November 2012
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
1E Great Eastern Street
Hackney
London
EC2A 3EJ
Wednesday, 21 November 2012
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.
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
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
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