tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29474380269564524992024-03-14T03:58:58.614+00:00The New London Cocktail Review"Work is the curse of the drinking class."
Oscar WildeNew London Cocktail Reviewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258852085903830506noreply@blogger.comBlogger22125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2947438026956452499.post-9374115585180283512011-09-05T11:12:00.000+01:002011-09-05T11:12:46.779+01:00Roux at The Pembury, WestminsterRoux at The Pembury<br />
RCIS<br />
Parliament Square<br />
London SW1P 3AD<br />
<a href="http://rouxatparliamentsquare.co.uk/">http://rouxatparliamentsquare.co.uk/</a><br />
<br />
A Review in Letters<br />
<br />
1. Sasha to Kina<br />
<br />
You were, of course, my dear Kina, surprised by my unexpected departure for the country. I hasten to explain everything to you frankly. The month gone past, I was with Lisa at Princess M’s ball when Lady Olga, apropos of nothing, said to me that I must pay a visit to her son in his new enterprise, The Pembury, one floor up from Michel Roux Jr’s esteemed dining establishment, Parliament Square. Being dutiful servants of her lady’s recommendations of fashion we, Princess M and I that is, called in on Prince Abdulai one evening. You well know, my angel, that Abdulai and I spent many happy childhood years together but that I had not seen him since he joined the Service to wage war alongside our good patriots against Napoleon, that bane of the world. What I have never told you, or anyone, was that we made a secret engagement before he joined the hussars, when he promised to marry me upon his return. And so I was most surprised to learn of his return, as I was not aware, you understand, that he was again in London, let alone that he now planned to stake his family fortune on this newest endeavour. When Lisa and I arrived at Pembury we entered into a beautiful room most luxuriously furnished and were made welcome by Prince Liam, whose charming manners were nearly enough to make young Lisa fall rather in love with him. I left them, speaking together on the peculiarities of water filtration systems, to search for dear Abdulai.<br />
<br />
I approached the mirrored glass with some trepidation. Would A still remember the promises he had made to his childhood friend? Finally, a man emerged from behind the glittering bottles and, though he had changed in many ways, in essentials he remained ever the same. We spoke of his mother, Lady Olga, and of his adventures in the hussars; very little was said by way of our years together growing up. In all things, he was much changed, but one thing in particular: he has become enamoured with alcoholic punches, though all the time referring to them as “cocktails”. Apparently this is the new fashion. Most peculiar. He insisted I try these cocktails, one after another, and conversed with me only on matters related to their composition, ingredients and unusual names. I did not know what to do. My head was in a whirl. Naturally, I gave way to his insistent urgings and sampled all of the drinks he put in front of me. I cannot even begin to describe the peculiar pleasure of what then followed. Lisa and Prince Liam had by this time rejoined us and Prince A had placed in front of us a number of punches to sample. A had bestowed each punch with its own unique nomenclature, often quite unusual, to provide some indication as to the composition. The Three Citrus Ricky was made with such exotic ingredients that I had to ask over and over what Ketel One Citroen (our fine Russian vodka, made in the Netherlands, wherever that is. They add lemon to it. Most unusual), fino sherry, and yuzu were. Prince A remarked that soldiers are far more worldy than young London ladies. I admit it was pleasant to drink, but not as pleasant as the next glass he pushed across towards me. He called it the Penultimate Word, which Lisa and I both agreed was very witty. It tasted like the Lapsang Souchong tea Natasha poured from the samovar just this morning. I said this to Abdulai and he only laughed at me and said that was because it was made from Don Julio Blanco, green chartreuse and coriander. I wanted to ask what green chartreuse was, but by this point my head felt rather strange and I wished our resumed acquaintance was more like the happy, earnest carefree days of our youth, not so formal and single-minded as all this talk of chartreuse and coriander. <br />
<br />
Conscious of the necessity to say something, I mentioned quite irrelevantly that he was much changed since our last meeting and that his new-found devotion to punches that make one feel so lightheaded must leave little time for other pursuits. He seemed very cross with me and in a low voice said something about not being obliged to fulfill silly childhood promises. At once, I understood the meaning of his words and that he did indeed remember his promises to me and was little interested in fulfilling them. I was a miserable creature and made my excuses to sweet Lisa, who seemed rather taken with Prince Liam and he with she. I left Pembury immediately. I could not bear to remain in town, for I knew I would have to see Lady Olga again and I could not bear to have her ask me for news of her son’s latest enterprise.<br />
<br />
This is the truth of it. I know you will think me ridiculous, but I really could not stand to meet with anyone who might ask me how I am and whether I have been to Prince A’s Pembury of late. I wish him well with his newest endeavour and his strange new passion, but I daresay I will never forgive him for breaking our engagement, even if that engagement was but a childhood folly. <br />
<br />
New London Cocktail Reviewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258852085903830506noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2947438026956452499.post-13578970285255917712011-06-20T14:24:00.028+01:002011-06-20T14:58:29.868+01:00VOC, King's CrossVOC<br />
2 Varnishers Yard<br />
Regents Quarter<br />
King's Cross<br />
London N1 9AW<br />
<a href="http://www.voc-london.co.uk/">http://www.voc-london.co.uk</a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.rosssutherland.co.uk/main/">Ross Sutherland</a><br />
<br />
VOC<br />
<br />
King's Cross is an enemy generator<br />
pumping out crackhead versions<br />
of my old schoolfriend Ian Yarrow.<br />
<br />
In each doorway, a mail clerk<br />
putting in a call to a girl up North.<br />
<br />
UP TO 500,000 SQ FT OF RETAIL SPACE<br />
& a sky like the back of a spoon.<br />
<br />
For the last week I’ve been<br />
on a reading tour of the Cornish Riviera,<br />
where I managed to tear open<br />
the crotch of my jeans.<br />
<br />
(Each night I had to assure the audience<br />
that the hole wasn’t part of my act)<a href="http://newlondoncocktailreview.blogspot.com/2011/06/voc-kings-cross.html#note1" id="refX"><sup>1</sup></a> <br />
<br />
Now, back in London,<br />
in a borrowed pair of grey slacks, white shirt,<br />
I make my way across Varnishers Yard,<br />
<br />
which still looks exactly like<br />
the artist’s impression of Varnishers Yard<br />
I saw on a pasteboard four years ago.<br />
<br />
Named after the world's first megacorporation,<br />
the VOC is a modest establishment<a href="http://newlondoncocktailreview.blogspot.com/2011/06/voc-kings-cross.html#note2" id="refX"><sup>2</sup></a><br />
<br />
with a maximum capacity of thirty-two people<br />
and a globe of the world that you are free to spin.<br />
<br />
On my first turn I get Tanzania.<br />
Then Gdanzk. Sadly, on my third spin<br />
I drown off the coast of the Solomon islands.<br />
<br />
And now, the cocktail review:<br />
<br />
I bring a Martinez to my lips.<br />
A jester falls through a roof<br />
into a bale of smoldering hay.<br />
<br />
Next, the Veiux Carre. A nervous dog<br />
interrupts an anecdote from an art dealer<br />
about the time he met <a href="http://youtu.be/Go8x_1fD5vM">Merle Travis</a>.<br />
<br />
Finally, the Bergamot Grog. A turquoise stamp<br />
on a metal coffee table, schoolboy French coming<br />
from the kitchen. Rain added in After Effects.<br />
<br />
God, I’m trying tonight.<br />
<br />
Why is it<br />
that the move from the office to the bar<br />
is rarely the dramatic change<br />
it ought to be?<br />
<br />
Like when the cursor on my computer<br />
turns into a beachball.<br />
If anything, this development<br />
just makes things worse.<br />
<br />
Next to me, a food blogger<br />
with an arse for a face<br />
is lecturing the proprietor on his own livelihood.<br />
<i>Yeah, this drink definitely has a flavour, he says.</i><br />
<i>I mean, if I wanted, I could look it up…</i><br />
<br />
I go to make a note of this<br />
as yet further evidence<br />
of the death of opinion,<br />
<br />
but when I look down, I notice<br />
that I’ve somehow popped a button.<br />
<br />
I wait<br />
until no one is looking<br />
then take out a stapler<br />
and punch a new fastening<br />
into the shirt<br />
that I borrowed for the evening.<br />
<br />
Much like the way<br />
the launch of a bar<br />
themed around a 17th century punch house<br />
might slip itself quietly<br />
into 67 acres<br />
of perfect investment opportunity.<br />
<br />
--------------------------------------------------------------------<br />
<span id="note1"><sup>1</sup><span style="font-size: x-small;"> i.e. Chekhov says that if an audience<br />
is shown a gun in act one, it must be fired by act three.<br />
Which makes a gaping hole in your crotch<br />
not only bad tailoring, but terrible dramaturgy.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span id="note2"><sup>2</sup> <span style="font-size: x-small;">The Dutch East India Company possessed<br />
quasi-governmental powers, including<br />
the ability to wage war, imprison and execute convicts.<br />
Similarly, this cocktail bar possesses<br />
an incredible cigar collection, exposed brickwork<br />
and Nouvelle Vague’s second album on the stereo.</span></span>New London Cocktail Reviewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258852085903830506noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2947438026956452499.post-75313551329018471232011-05-17T14:48:00.001+01:002011-05-17T14:50:11.500+01:00The London Cocktail Club, Fitzrovia<div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">The London Cocktail Club</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">61 Goodge Street</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Fitzrovia </span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">London W1T 1TL</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://www.londoncocktailclub.co.uk/">http://www.londoncocktailclub.co.uk/</a></span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Olive R. Twist</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was dark and chill despite being a mid-May evening when Tiny Tim descended into the basement of 61 Goodge Street, away from the onerous claptrap of busy Fitzrovian Streets, into the dark, friendly warmth of wee Jamie Wopsickle's Dickensian parlour and cocktail club for the quaffing of distinguished beverages.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Tiny Tim was relieved to be free from the noise of the city and sighed contentedly as he and Pip sank into the crescent-shaped booths and took a good look at their surrounds. There were hundreds of dusty bottles filled to the top with pastel-coloured liquid, of all shapes and sizes, lining the wall behind the bar, glittering like the pocket watch hanging from Pip's waistcoat. Tiny Tim thought how warm and comfortable it felt inside, despite the dimmed lights and close quarters of the club's other occupants.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">A young man with a friendly smile went over and introduced himself as Shrimpton Merryweather. He said he was at their disposal. Pip was feeling rather brave that evening and ordered a Bacon and Egg Coupet which Shrimpton said was the height of adventurous sophistication. Tiny Tim was weary still and found he could not settle his restless mind. Shrimpton Merryweather said that if Tiny Tim told him what sort of thing most often slaked his thirst, then he would concoct a treat of most wonderful composition.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">After much conversation Shrimpton Merryweather felt confident he understood what it was Tiny Tim desired and returned, after a period of time had passed, with Pip's Bacon and Egg Coupet and Tiny Tim's libation, somewhat like an Aperol Spritz, but with the additional Generosity of a drop of Absinthe and a swish of Martini Rosso.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Tiny Tim and Pip sighed contentedly as they supped their drinks and reminisced together about their idyllic childhood days, wrestling baby lambs in verdant fields and making elderflower cordial from June blossoms for Mother. Though they were happy in spirit, they were weary in body and much in need of rejuvenation, and so Tiny Tim and Pip drank the rest greedily and exclaimed often in praise of the creative Genius of Shrimpton Merryweather and of wee Jamie Wopsickle, who though absent in that moment, was not forgotten.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Indeed, just at that very instant, an older Dickensian-looking gentleman - sitting in the corner with a woman of extraordinary beauty and shining eyes - stood up and exclaimed, "a toast to wee Jamie Wopsickle!", where thereupon he purchased everyone in the Establishment a drink. Tiny Tim and Pip were most pleased; they could not believe their luck. What a charming place this was.</span></div>New London Cocktail Reviewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258852085903830506noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2947438026956452499.post-18533637324776729282011-05-09T13:57:00.002+01:002011-05-09T14:09:22.703+01:00The Zetter Townhouse, Clerkenwell<div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">The Zetter Townhouse</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">49-50 St John's Square</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Clerkenwell</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">London EC1V 4JJ</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://www.thezettertownhouse.com/"><span style="font-size: small;">http://www.thezettertownhouse.com/</span></a></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Kina Lillet & Jerry Boam</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">Scene: A country townhouse, in the city.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </div><div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">Fade in: The townhouse is full of thirty-something off-duty bankers and large groups of perfectly turned out women on hen parties. A woman sits alone at a small table in the corner. It is clear she's waiting for someone. A little while later a young man enters, wearing a navy blue double breasted blazer with gold buttons. It is clear that he's looking for someone. He spots the woman, smiles, and walks over to her table. He sits down. They don't speak. A menu is already on the table. He looks at the menu, takes his time and then signals to the waitress, who hurries over to take their order.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </div><div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">Jerry: "A Flintlock please, and a..."</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </div><div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">Kina: "A Master at Arms."</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </div><div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">Jerry: "and a Master at Arms for the lady."</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </div><div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">The waitress notes their drinks down on a faded shorthand pad and winds her way between the tables back to the bar.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </div><div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">Jerry: "Quite something this place, don't you think? Rather reminds me of the Boam's Wessex pile."</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </div><div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">Kina: "What, full of men in cheap suits and women who seem to be preparing for their impending nuptials by having botox and drinking themselves into oblivion with their 'girlfriends'?"</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </div><div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">Jerry: "Kina, darling, why must you always find the objectionable in everything?"</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </div><div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">Kina: "</span><span style="font-size: small;">Why must you insist on bringing the objectionable to me? I want to like it. I really do. I'm trying to give the place a chance."</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </div><div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">Jerry: "Ah, now then. Here, it seems, are our drinks. Splendid."</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </div><div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">Kina: "Why are they in such small glasses? How peculiar."</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </div><div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">J: "Oh gosh, well this is a charming little nip. It's like neat gin, but with a delicate floral sort of note or two. And she lit the side on fire – did you see that? How delightful. Rather reminds me of the Boam's ancient duelling pistols. Did I ever tell you that story of Old Deadeye Boam and those fig-leaved natives...?”</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </div><div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><<The gaggle of women at the next table chatter away, "Have you seen Almedia's bridesmaids dresses? They're absolutely atrocious. I mean sea green. Really. What was she thinking.">></span></div><div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </div><div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">K: "I'm sure that someone might like this sort of drink, but it certainly isn't me. What have they put it in, anyway? I can't even remember. Evaporated port and rum. Why didn't I just order a Bloody Mary? I like Bloody Marys. I don't like this."</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </div><div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">Kina attracts the attention of the waitress, who comes to their table. Jerry winces.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </div><div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">K: "I'm so sorry, but I really am not enjoying this drink. It's made beautifully, but it just isn't to my taste. Could you take it back and bring me a Bloody Mary?"</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </div><div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><<"Letitia, they did such a magnificent job on your forehead. Did you go to John on Harley Street? Didn't I tell you he was the best.">></span></div><div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </div><div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">K: "So Jerry, what's the news? How was Mogadishu? Did you manage to track down your mother in the end."</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </div><div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">J: "You know mother. One can only find her when she wants to be found, but Mogadishu was lovely as ever. The whole place is up in arms over elections or something. I forget exactly what. But never mind that all that. I drank all the Château Lafite in sight and did what I had to do.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </div><div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">K: "Here's my Bloody Mary, thank the lord. Yes, that's much better. Yes. Parsley vodka and beef <span style="font-weight: normal;">consommé</span>. Peculiar. It tastes rather like a Bloody Mary but with an Oxo cube chucked in. Much better than that other ghastly thing I was drinking before, but it's no classic. Dearest Jerry, let's never come here again."</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"> <<"Of course I'm marrying Benedict. Just because he dallied that one time with the nanny, I'd be mad to abandon the flat in Chelsea, the Range Rover, and the little place in Dorset....">></span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"></div><div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">J: "I'll admit that I'm not overly fond of the dreadful company in which we find ourselves, Kina, but I am rather fond of nearly neat gin. Have I ever mentioned my Oxford days? I have? Right you are. Shall we depart? And yes, let's never come here again."</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Fade out.</span></div>New London Cocktail Reviewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258852085903830506noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2947438026956452499.post-53508804549294088982011-05-03T11:36:00.000+01:002011-05-03T11:36:51.640+01:00Holiday posting: Raoul's, Oxford<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">Raoul’s</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">32 Walton Street<br />
Oxford OX2 6AA</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://www.raoulsbar.co.uk/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">www.raoulsbar.co.uk</a></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">Jerry Boam</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">Naturally, or otherwise, Merton College, Oxford is the Boam alma mater. For more generations than the archives recall, sundry Boams have been drawn here; here, to Merton’s singular cobbled charms, its delightfully tended gardens, and its strange, shrugging air of having just missed out on something rather important. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">It’s been a mixed history. Viscount Balthazar Boam was here of course, until he was sent down for something to do with the Dean, the Warden’s sixteen year-old daughter and a half-crate of vintage port. The exact tale has never fully emerged. Great Uncle Boozy Boam was here, submerged in claret and the classics. And, more recently, half-Uncle Hogg-Boam scraped in somehow and terrorised the young servant girls long into Oxford’s winter nights. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">It is with such thoughts of lineage and destiny and the aged musk of <span class="googqs-tidbitgoogqs-tidbit-0"><span lang="EN-US">Gevrey-Chambertin that I return now to Oxford’s ponderous streets. We stroll along the Broad, past Ducker’s on Turl, down the cobbles of Magpie Lane, and oh, to Merton’s pale and happy stones. Three years of memories rush back: Sundays, lazy smoking upon my first-year window seat; hazy summer lawns, tasseled loafers, lightly crumpled linen; my first pair of co-respondent brogues; my half-blue for Rugby Fives; my thirst for the coruscating scrape of neat gin upon a half-starved stomach. And Raoul’s.</span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="googqs-tidbitgoogqs-tidbit-0"><span lang="EN-US">Raoul’s. Here we supped on cocktails – rich and fruity – deep into summer nights, to totter home full of sugary verve and love. Thick mango purees, spiced pears redolent of some mystical Orient, dribbles of sticky caramel, fresh limes, apricots, the buttery whiff of vanilla. And the booze! Rums and brandies, whiskies, vodkas, liqueurs in every flavour, tequila from old Mexico, bourbon from New York…</span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="googqs-tidbitgoogqs-tidbit-0"><span lang="EN-US">Unsurprisingly, the aura of such dreams has faded. The clientèle wear jeans now. The décor – always bad – seems to have taken rather a tumble. And of course these days I must brave the pavement to partake of a Sobranie. But the drinks! Oh the drinks! One diving slurp into a tumbler of peachy Calvados-laced wonder, and it all comes flooding back – the excitement, the joy, the adventure. The booze! For as long as there are Boams at Merton, there shall be Boams at Raoul's. </span></span></span><br />
</div>New London Cocktail Reviewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258852085903830506noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2947438026956452499.post-53000997942045518682011-04-28T11:23:00.001+01:002011-04-28T11:32:05.472+01:00Saf, Shoreditch<div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Saf</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">152-154 Curtain Road</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Shoreditch</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">London EC2A 3AT</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://www.safrestaurant.co.uk/">http://www.safrestaurant.co.uk/</a></span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Kina Lillet </span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">You may be surprised, dear readers, to learn that your esteemed Editrix is in fact a vegetarian. Perhaps that's why I'm so very fond of horseradish vodka. Given said vegetarianism, I'd been meaning to eat at Saf for ages. I'm sure the food is delicious, a veritable den of veggie food porn, and though I'm not proud to admit it I've not yet made it past the bar.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Though the restaurant is light and airy, the bar looks a bit like one of those California juice delis where mothers with over-active thyroids pop in after their 6am jog for a wheat grass shot with a vitamin C boost. Do not let this trifling detail put you off. The cocktails are like that <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5qu4wQwc6QU">horrible American film about Wills and Kate</a>: impossible to resist and utterly delectable.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">I'm with Margie Rita - who's still smarting from our last outing to <a href="http://newlondoncocktailreview.blogspot.com/2010/11/lounge-bohemia-shoreditch.html">Lounge Bohemia</a> - but I worry not for I know what the barmen at Saf are capable of. Margie plumps for a Tomaso, which sounds like some sort of tomato based drink, but is in fact comprised of white rum, lemon, mint, basil, a splash of prosecco, and a slosh of Galliano Balsamico. Smoooooooth.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">I try Rebecca, Rebecca - Couvoisier Exclusif, homemade candied grapefruit syrup, Kummel, Aperol, a dash of orange bitters, delightfully garnished with a lemon peel sprinkled with fennel seeds - which is also wonderfully smooth, so much so that I'm convinced it's just freshly squeezed guava juice not booze. </span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">But by seconds we're feeling rather light headed and so Margie opts for the silliest sounding cracker on the menu, "What happens in Amsterdam...", which though ridiculously named drinks scrumptiously, all ginny honey and ginger. I ask the bartender to make me his favourite drink on the current menu, the Charlie Chaplin, which turns out to be the best drink of the evening: sloe gin, creme de apricot, and fresh lime juice. Simple but superb. Who needs meat, after all, when fruit and vegetables make such delicious drinks.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div>New London Cocktail Reviewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258852085903830506noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2947438026956452499.post-13212357629204236622011-02-16T09:31:00.001+00:002011-02-16T09:32:05.334+00:00Vıajante, Bethnal Green<div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Vıajante</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Patriot Square<br />
Bethnal Green<br />
London E2 9NF</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://www.viajante.co.uk/"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></a><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://www.viajante.co.uk/">http://www.viajante.co.uk</a></span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-US">Monty Pulciano</span></span> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-US"></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-US">I once tried on an off the peg suit at Spencer Hart on Savile Row. The jacket had magical flattering properties. It grabbed me around the shoulders, made me stand up straight and gave me an unfounded sense of my own importance. This is what a properly made Negroni should do. The gin makes you sit up straight, the medicinal taste of the campari feels like it is doing you good whilst the sweet vermouth and orange flatter you. The Negroni at Viajante failed to do one of these things and therefore failed utterly. There was not enough gin you see; I got the medicine and sweetness without the discipline imparted by strong alcohol. The twisted orange peel wasn’t up to much either. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-US">Kina Lillet had asked me to do a review for this blog. I’d been putting it off for months pretending that I was writing a book when truth be told, I just don’t like cocktails that much. There’s so much to go wrong and even when the drink is made correctly, you have about 4 minutes to drink it before the ice melts, dilutes the drink and it is ruined. Red wine or whisky get better the longer you leave them and I like to linger. Cocktails are all hurry. They are essentially drinks for children. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-US">The cocktail bar in Viajante is, however, a lovely room, the almonds are excellent and the staff sweetly camp so it would have been silly not to have another drink. I ordered a Bermuda Porter. This consists of rum mixed with lemon juice and sugar and then topped with the foam from a porter beer and grated nutmeg and served in a half-pint dimple glass. Now this is a clever drink. One drinks the tart but sweetened rum through the malty foam. The first sip is wonderful. Sadly the foam quickly collapses, the ice melts and you are left with an unsightly scum. Before long it looks like one of those drinks university rugby players down for a dare before being sick all over your shoes. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-US">My wife ordered better, a Buffalo Jam. This is bourbon, Borojoa jam, lemon and soda: delicious, and after five minutes still delicious. Dilution did not ruin the drink. Viajante claim that Borojoa jam has aphrodisiac properties. Perhaps it’s me, but the only things she felt like after we left were some lamb chops and a nice drop of claret. </span></span></div>New London Cocktail Reviewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258852085903830506noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2947438026956452499.post-29070946794218658982011-02-03T13:57:00.002+00:002011-02-03T14:08:53.260+00:00Bar 92, Fitzrovia<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Bar 92</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">92-94 Wigmore Street</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">London</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">W1U 3RD </span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://bar92.com/">http://bar92.com/</a></span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Kina Lillet</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><span style="font-size: small;">There’s something really quite offensive about the typical review of a cocktail bar. Nine times out of ten the ‘description’ is pilfered from a press statement, hence the similarities in so many reviews: ‘Oh my god. So there I was walking down [insert name of street one would be unlikely to ever randomly walk down] when all of a sudden what did I spy but a lil’ old cocktail bar, my oh my. I then went in to taste, in strict chronological order the two comp drinks I was allocated by the bar’s PR. Drink one was <i>divine</i>, drink two utterly <i>delish</i>. You must all go to [insert absurd bar name here] <i>immediately</i>.’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Dreadful? <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Dreadful.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Anyway, I digress. I’m going straight. I’m the editor of this here review and I’m here to review. And not just any old bar either. This is Bar 92. Helpfully the bar’s address, capacity and name are all exactly the same. I’ll leave you to decide whether that’s clever or lazy.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">To the task at hand! <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Unpleasentries:<o:p></o:p> </span><br />
<ol><li><span style="font-size: small;">This bar is ugly.<o:p></o:p> </span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: small;">This bar has ostrich-leather sofas.<o:p></o:p> </span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: small;">1 is not necessarily because of 2.<o:p></o:p> </span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: small;">The food is rather nondescript.<o:p></o:p></span></li>
</ol></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">I could go on about lack of atmosphere and zombie serving staff, but given that customer service in London is atrocious as a rule and most bar owners think atmosphere can be bought at John Lewis, this bar has one thing going for it that many others lack.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">And that, dear readers, is a damn fine bartender (DFB). <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">I don’t wish to name names, but too many bars – including some I am unashamedly fond of frequenting – privilege theatrics over taste buds. Being a DFB, Omkar Kalaskar, the man behind Bar 92’s unusual menu, knows that the way to a lady editor’s heart is through her lips, not her eyes. Perhaps it’s because the bar is empty and Kalaskar has time to flick and swish each of our drinks into a composition so perfectly balanced it would have made Mozart green-eyed with envy, but Hallelujah, what perfection! what balance! what deliciousness is this!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">We drink:<o:p></o:p> </span><br />
<ol><li><span style="font-size: small;">Ginger and Thyme Sour </span><span style="font-size: small;"> (vodka, lime, and sugar, muddled with ginger, thyme, and egg white).<o:p></o:p> </span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: small;">After Hours (mango juice, amaretto, dark rum, and coconut cream).<o:p></o:p> </span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: small;">The 92 (tequila, galliano, passoa, passion fruit puree, lime juice, cranberry, champagne).<o:p></o:p> </span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: small;">Yellow Magpie (more rum!, fresh ginger, lychee)<o:p></o:p></span></li>
</ol></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Every sip is so lip-smackingly classy, so perfectly poised, so refreshingly different that I never want to leave. I want to stay and imbibe one after another of the marvellous creations emerging from behind the bar of this man with a mind like Einstein and a palate like Marie Antoinette. But alas, <a href="http://spoonfedblog.com/2011/01/bar-92-wigmore-street/">Jerry </a>and I have quaffed our drinks allocation and the PRs are pissed off I called their bar ugly. So we leave.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Let them try and keep me away.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>New London Cocktail Reviewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258852085903830506noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2947438026956452499.post-89014503485478619292011-01-19T15:31:00.005+00:002011-01-19T16:31:20.754+00:00Callooh Callay, Shoreditch<div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Callooh Callay</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">65 Rivington Street</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">London</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">EC2A 3AY</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://www.calloohcallaybar.com/"><span style="font-size: small;">http://www.calloohcallaybar.com</span></a></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://www.simonbarraclough.com/"><span style="font-size: small;">Simon Barraclough</span></a></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
<b><span style="font-size: small;">Callooh Callay</span></b><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Excuse me please, my ear is full of milk—Oliver Hardy (Going Bye-Bye, 1934)</i></span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Wine comes in at the mouth, and love at the eye,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">but <i>any fule kno</i> that milk comes in at the ear.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">I hear that cocktails pour their thoughts</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">through the candlestick ‘phone at <i>Callooh Callay</i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">where patrons, wise and elegant, drink not</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">themselves under the table but clear through</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">the looking glass where the Jabberwock waits</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">with impeccable, unimpeach<i>schnapps</i>able taste.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">If its brrr outside then there’s <i>Byrrh</i> within</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">knocking boots with a splash of <i>Amer Picon</i>,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Cointreau</i>, anise, and a sly </span><span style="font-size: small;">soupçon <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">of inside-out chat about this and that.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Fraternise with a passing <i>Fratterwacken</i></span><span style="font-size: small;">,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">or pick from a platter of snicker-snacks<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">to whet the old whistle and I’ll come to you lad,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">keep coming back for the <i>Jubjub Bird</i><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">in its fresh minty nest of green olive eggs,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">spirited anchovies pecking their way<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">through shell and through mirror to the secret chamber <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">beyond.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>New London Cocktail Reviewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258852085903830506noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2947438026956452499.post-79196259627489347012011-01-10T11:10:00.001+00:002011-01-10T11:10:01.675+00:00Ninety Eight Bar and Lounge, Shoreditch<span style="font-family: inherit;">Ninety Eight Bar and Lounge<br />
98 Curtain Road<br />
Shoreditch<br />
London<br />
EC2A 3AF</span><br />
<a href="http://www.ninetyeight-bar-lounge.com/"><span style="font-family: inherit;">http://www.ninetyeight-bar-lounge.com/</span></a><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
Abby La Fée<br />
<br />
As I descend the cast iron spiral staircase from the street level of 98 Curtain Road, I don’t feel a bit like Alice entering the rabbit hole. As far as I’m aware Alice didn’t have jaded expectations of Wonderland, but I feel certain I know what I’m going to get from this underground Shoreditch bar: low lighting, battered Chesterfield settees, wax-dripped wine bottles and hipsters discussing their next tattoos (“so, like, I think I’m going to get a double helix on my tit with the words ‘there’s no gene for the human spirit’ written underneath, probably in a foreign language ‘cause it looks better like that”).<br />
<br />
Well blow me down, how wrong I was. On reaching the bottom of the stairs, I'm met with white walls, marble flooring, fresh cut flowers and a twenty-foot high conservatory, complete with pot-palms and a grand piano. It’s awash with pastel coloured Baroque furniture, vintage perfume bottles, white feathered lampshades and sheepskin rugs. Not your average 'my sovereign is more ironic than your sovereign' Hoxton haunt. On the table in front of me is a white porcelain elephant with a Smartie tube sticking out of its back. Curioser and curioser.<br />
<br />
The bountiful proprietor, Kath Morrell, is straight at my side explaining that the concept behind the bar is ‘fun’. Fun, fun, fun. She introduces me to some novelties:<br />
“Dip your finger in, rub it on yourself, and lick it off”. She says.<br />
A bold, request, perhaps, but in the spirit of open mindedness I bashfully oblige. Edible candle wax which doubles as a moisturiser, who’d have thought? Love that sweet-grease taste. She also offers me fairy cakes, followed by strawberries dipped in rum and chilli sugar. I inhale some of the chilli powder and ineffectively try to style out my esophageal paroxysms with a spontaneous Horatian Ode. Quite the Tea Party.<br />
<br />
I proceed to indelicately set upon the first aptly named tipple, ‘Off in the Clouds', with the relish of a thirsty hound. A martini glass arrives full of towering candy floss, which dissolves as a bright blue concoction of lavender-infused vodka, gin and blue Curacao is poured over it. A vesper it may be, but it tastes like a melted Refresher and white spirit jus. Not cool. My taste buds forgive me, however, when I get my lips around The Country Cottage Sour, a pink-drink of lavender-infused rum, apple and hazelnut; and they're rendered delirious little papillae by my next tryst with the Labito. If you can get past its unfortunately vulval appellation, you'll discover a most wondrous mojito made with lavender-infused rum. <br />
<br />
Granted certain flavour and style combinations at Ninety Eight are verging on garish and would undoubtedly illicit a spontaneous ‘quelle horreur’ from the lips of my modest-tasted French mother (she can’t understand American accents and sushi conveyor belts make her seasick). And there are a few ‘okeeeeeeeeeeey’ ornaments (the rooster made of plastic bags is worthy of note here) but that’s part of Ninety Eight’s appeal. Like the decor, the unlikely experimentation with mixology is playful and somewhat nostalgic, contributing to the charm and whimsy of the place. Behind the bar giant perfume bottles hold spirits infused with many weird and wonderful things.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Oh my ears and whiskers, how late it’s getting. I reluctantly bid adieu to the Hatter and mount the spiral staircase, a little less gracefully than before. </span>New London Cocktail Reviewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258852085903830506noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2947438026956452499.post-59489871290529818762011-01-05T11:43:00.000+00:002011-01-05T11:43:34.066+00:00China Tang at The DorchesterChina Tang at The Dorchester<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">Park Lane<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Mayfair<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">London<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">W1K 1QA<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://www.thedorchester.com/china-tang">http://www.thedorchester.com/china-tang</a><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
Glenn Fiddich<br />
<br />
“So what’s it really like at the top of Mount Everest?” Ludicrously Hot Date asked me, popping a wasabi peanut into her mouth. As she leaned forward to pick up a replacement, I caught a glimpse of something black and expensive-looking underneath her dress. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
“Oh, you know,” I said. “Cold. Snowy.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
“And you got up there totally without oxygen?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
“Well, I…”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
“Wow. That is so… I mean, wow.” In went another peanut. Up went my blood pressure. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
I stumbled across Ludicrously Hot Date in the personals section of a well-known newspaper’s website. She was naturally blonde, French-Canadian and a qualified masseuse. After years of dating wimpy acupuncturists and yoga teachers, she told potential suitors viewing her profile, she now wanted to meet a real man. Someone who could fix her car without looking at the manual and make a fire in a clearing whatever the weather. Someone born without tear ducts who could demolish one of those huge American-style steaks that flops over the edge of the plate in a single sitting. Someone, in short, who very definitely wasn’t me. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
<i>I climb mountains for a living</i>, I wrote, emboldened by four hours of Boxing Day drinking with the retired Royal Marine who lives across the road from Mother Fiddich. <i>And I once killed a deer just by looking at it. Drinks next week? </i><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
It was, of course, a joke. I really didn’t think I’d get a reply. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
But I did, and in a hog-whimpering panic I suggested subterranean China Tang for our first – and almost certainly last – meeting. Ludicrously Hot Date listed Mad Men amongst her interests, and the place has a fabulously kitsch, Don-Draper-goes-to-Hong-Kong-and-wakes-up-next-to-Miss-Kowloon vibe. There are giant light-up soda siphons and jet-setting businessmen clustered around the bar talking in three-letter acronyms and spirits of truly stupendous quality. It’s also, crucially, very dimly lit. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
Having hovered at a discreet distance from us for ten minutes, a waiter wearing trousers that were infinitely better tailored than mine arrived to take our order for cocktails. Ludicrously Hot Date batted her eyelashes at him.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
“Surprise me,” she said. “I love surprises. Don’t you, Glenn?” She looked into my eyes and rested her manicured hand lightly on my knee.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
“Mmph,” I said.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
“And for you, sir?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
“Right. Yes. Sorry. I’ll have a…” With my glasses hidden at the bottom of my man-bag (which was, in turn, hidden in the furthest recesses of China Tang’s cloakroom), I thumbed blindly through the menu, desperately looking for something macho-sounding. “A Bullshot. Great, Thanks.” <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
Ludicrously Hot Date wrinkled her nose.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
“Seriously?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
“Oh yes!” I squeaked. “Nothing like a nice Bullshot to start the evening.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
“It’s just that it’s got beef consommé in it. And that comes from cows.” She frowned. “Doesn’t it?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
“Yes, you’re right,” I said, very slowly. “It does. Yes.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
“But I thought your profile said you were a vegetarian?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
Since eating an ill-advised box of Chicken McNuggets outside the Bolton branch of McDonald’s on New Year’s Eve 2002, I haven’t touched meat or fish of any kind. I gulped. Behind me, ‘I’ve Got You Under My Skin’ was drifting out of the speakers. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
<i>I’d sacrifice anything, come what might, for the sake of having you near… <o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
“Non-practicing,” I said.<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
“Oh, this is divine,” Ludicrously Hot Date sighed, setting her glass down on the table. “Aren’t you going to try yours, Glenn?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
I stared enviously at her bespoke Christmas Star cocktail – Ketel One vodka and something creamy with a dusting of nutmeg and a star anise on top. In front of me, in an enormous highball glass, was the Bullshot – all 350 menacing millilitres of it. It looked like Scotch broth, but without the carrots. Trying not to pull my coffee-face, I took the wariest sip since Rasputin sat down for dinner with Felix Yusupov and six of his closest friends. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
“What do you think?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
I waited to pass out, or for my throat to close up. But actually, the Bullshot was just like a grown-up Bloody Mary – spicy, peppery and masses of depth. Not bad. Not bad at all. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
“Delicious!” I said, grinning manically. “You know, I could drink these all night, I really could.” <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
“Well, I don’t know about that…” Ludicrously Hot Date moved a little closer to me on the plush banquette. “But how about we share some dim sum? I’m crazy about those cute little pork buns.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
I pictured battery chickens, and McDonald’s kitchens, and that horrible squeaking sound that Chicken McNuggets make when you bite into them. Then I pictured Ludicrously Hot Date licking barbeque sauce off her fingers.<br />
<br />
“Count me in,” I said. <span style="font-size: small;"><br style="font-family: inherit;" /></span></div>New London Cocktail Reviewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258852085903830506noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2947438026956452499.post-88611821053222319032010-12-22T10:08:00.000+00:002010-12-22T10:07:37.387+00:00Experimental Cocktail Club, SohoExperimental Cocktail Club
<br>13A Gerrard Street
<br>London
<br>W1D 5PS
<br><a href="http://www.experimentalcocktailclublondon.com">www.experimentalcocktailclublondon.com</a>
<br>
<br>Lee Moncello
<br>
<br>More Sherlock Holmes than Inspector Clouseau, we discover the Experimental Cocktail Club behind an unmarked door in Chinatown.
<br>
<br>From the steamy windows of the street, the stairway to the bar could be a portal to Mayfair - only the silk wallpaper and glass-noodle lampshades nod to the world outside.
<br>
<br>The waiter talks us through the menu; under his advice, I choose an Old Cuban - rum, champagne, ginger, lime and mint. My drinking companion, Keira Royale, orders an Experience No 2: gin, elderflower, lemon juice, basil and lemongrass.
<br>
<br>When the drinks arrive, we're quietly awed by little herb gardens in our vintage coupe glasses. Ah, les Français! You've always been much better than us in the kitchen.
<br>
<br>For the second round Keira opts for an Old Cuban while I order a Stone Raft and, sure, there are no complaints from my cocktail companion.
<br>
<br>But my drink is pure dommage. The menu promised bird's eye chilli-infused tequila, sherry, mezcal, agave nectar & celery bitters. I feel not the slightest tingle from the chillies - let alone the gentle poke of a celery stick - and sip away with intense chagrin until my £10 tumbler of sherry is empty
<br>
<br>Experimental perfection? It might as well have been a beef and onion trifle for all I enjoyed it.
<br>
<br>The one sweet upshot of the night was the realisation that London might be the world capital for cocktails. Sure, us Brits can barely cook worth a damn, but with Milk and Honey and the American Bar just five minutes' walk away from this venue, I hope for the ECC's sake that no-one else has to drink through the Stone Raft I had.
<br>
<br>But, given the reputation of their Parisian outpost, even in the worst case scenario I have no doubt that they'll earn back their train fares.New London Cocktail Reviewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258852085903830506noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2947438026956452499.post-91714823730388035522010-12-07T10:06:00.001+00:002011-01-05T00:09:26.290+00:00The Nightjar, Shoreditch<div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">The Nightjar</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">129 City Road</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">London</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">EC1V 1JB</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://www.barnightjar.com/"><span style="font-size: small;">www.barnightjar.com</span></a></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Opal Nera</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">I duck out of the rain and into an unmarked door on City Road. I’d received a phone call earlier that day requesting my services to help track down a wayward husband. Typically, I don’t get involved in such second rate shenanigans, but I need new business cards and times are tough.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Still a little sore from last night’s bust up with a rather eager Rottweiler, I gingerly make my way down dimly-lit stairs into a San Franciscan-styled speakeasy. It’s a classy joint. I’m not surprised. On the phone, she sounded classy too. I reckon I’m looking for a breathy blond with a face like a worried puppy. I start to wonder whether I oughtn’t to have worn a red carnation for identification when I realise that the place is empty, apart from a long-legged blonde sitting alone at a table in the corner, and a sultry redhead singing a melancholic tune on stage.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">I walk over to the blonde. Her hair swished down a little like what Frank Lloyd Wright must have had in mind when he designed Fallingwater. She wore a red dress so tight it looked Weisswurst wrapped in bacon. Boy, did she take a man’s mind off the recession.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">The blonde looked up at me. “Mr. Nera”, she drawled.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">“Drinks first,” I replied by way of introduction, “formalities second. What can I get you?”</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">“I’ll have a Fog Cutter. Rum always makes me feel better.”</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">I return with the drinks and sit opposite the blonde. I set the tall glass down in front of her and take a sip of my Ladybird before asking after her drink.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">“Do you always take so long to get to the point, Mr Nera? I asked you here for a reason.”</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">I cock my left eyebrow by way of response.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">“If you must know,” she purred, “it’s absolutely delicious. Tastes like my last Californian holiday – all rum and almond. Do you mind very much, Mr. Nera,” she said reaching across to brush my hand, “if I have a taste of your…”</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">“Of course,” I finished, sliding my drink across the table.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">“Delicious,” she said. A little smile flicked across her lips as she licked a swish of chocolate off the glass. “What is it? Spiced rum and perhaps a dash of plum liquor?”</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">“It’s a Ladybird. You’re right about the spiced rum, but it’s prune and truffle liqueur, not plum. An excellent palate,” I smiled at her. “Now, tell me, Miss…”</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">She studied me over her Fog Cutter and remained silent.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">“Miss…,” I faltered, “how can I be of assistance?”</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">“Well, Mr. Nera, you see I haven’t actually got a husband. At least not yet. But I hope to have one soon. Perhaps after a few more of these Fog Cutters…”</span></div>New London Cocktail Reviewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258852085903830506noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2947438026956452499.post-35627536739354788042010-11-17T10:36:00.000+00:002010-11-17T10:36:10.112+00:00Lounge Bohemia, Shoreditch<div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Lounge Bohemia</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">1 Great Eastern Street</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">London</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">EC2A 3EJ</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Kina Lillet<b><i><br />
</i></b></span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>"It was a dark and stormy night;</b></span><span style="font-size: small;"><b> the rain fell in torrents--except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness."</b></span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>--Edward George Bulwer-Lytton, <i>Paul Clifford</i></b></span><span style="font-size: small;"><b> <i>(1830)</i></b></span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">If Lounge Bohemia were a sentence, not a bar, it'd be in with a prize-winning shot at the <a href="http://www.bulwer-lytton.com/">Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Prize</a> for rubbish writing. Like Bulwer-Lytton’s original line, Lounge Bohemia is atmospheric but overblown. I’d like to be drawn in, to be captivated by Paul Tvaroh’s establishment and by his cocktails, naturally, but while the ambience is just right and the menu-cum-book is a nicely observed detail, the drinks are all smoke and mirrors. I hate to resort to such a tawdry metaphor, but given that Lounge Bohemia is more concerned with process than pleasure, I feel less guilty for poo-pooing the watering hole of this would-be wizard of booze.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">I telephone to make an appointment, for an appointment is necessary. The conversation proceeds as expected, but before replacing the receiver, I am informed that neither suits nor office wear are permitted at this bar. Given that most everyone I know, even the dickhead, creative media types, work in an office, I wonder whether my cashmere and leather constitutes “office wear”.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">I meet Margie Rita and we fearlessly order round one. Margie opts for the Lavender Crème B<i><span style="font-style: normal;">rûlée</span></i>, a drink one of my new flatmates described to me as being like, “an orgasm in a glass”... The LCB is delicious. It tastes like a lavender-flavoured crème <i><span style="font-style: normal;">brûlée</span></i>. So far, so good. At the recommendation of our delightful hostess, I’ve ordered the bar’s signature drink: the Sgt. Pepper. With black pepper vodka, elderflower liqueur and cordial and lemon juice, it tastes neither like black pepper nor like elderflower, but rather bizarrely like freshly-squeezed grapefruit juice.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Next Margie orders a Kaid Sling, which is probably supposed to taste like an adults-only <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shirley_Temple_%28cocktail%29">Shirley Temple</a>, but instead comes across all sickly sweet and bubble gum. My Holy Smoke is “leather infused Courvoisier VSOP Exclusif, frankincense and myrrh smoke”. The drink arrives in a small flask nesting in a Czech bible. There’s an upturned glass resting on a tray. I’m instructed to turn the smoke-filled glass over and pour in the Courvoisier. It smells like a priest and tastes like sin. Actually, it tastes of a passable single malt, but who cares.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Our last drinks are the most bizarre: a Porcini-tini and a Bubble Bath Martini. Do porcini mushrooms, vodka, crème de cacao, condensed milk and salt sound like a match made in heaven? This is Tvaroh at his most Blumenthal-esque and I don’t like The Fat Duck either. </span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">The BBM was a blend of lychee liqueur, lavender and poppy seed vodka, with lychee, lavender and rose bubbles. Frankly, it was revolting: like soapy, liquidised turkish delight. Its only redeeming feature was a hilarious miniature rubber ducky face down in this undrinkable drink.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">I later find out that Tvaroh is <a href="http://marmitelover.blogspot.com/2010/03/ben-greeno-and-lounge-bohemia-at-loft.html">teetotal</a> and doesn’t drink a lick of booze. How utterly baffling. Why on earth would a man who doesn’t drink alcohol open a bar? It certainly helps to solve the puzzle of this place, though: the drinks at Lounge Bohemia taste like they were created by someone who likes neither cocktails nor the people who like to drink them.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Avoid the magic tricks. Find a bar that likes people who like to drink.</span></div>New London Cocktail Reviewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258852085903830506noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2947438026956452499.post-39396683326384570052010-11-11T11:18:00.000+00:002010-11-11T11:18:48.889+00:00Purl, Marylebone<div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Purl</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">50/54 Blandford Street</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">London</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">W1U 7HX</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Jerry Boam</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Hallowe'en is a time for tales. And in the Boam dynasty there is one tale that haunts each and every Blakeyed step, from birth unto the brink of death; a spectre that pursues every first-born without remorse, a dog that hounds us toward untimely ends and, for all we know, beyond that moment of supposed rest. No amount of claret has ever been able to quench this silent shadow; no amount, that is, until now. I, the seventh Boam to feel the touch of the icy-fingered fiend, tell my tale with darting eyes and pen a-tremble. </span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">My story begins under the streets of Marylebone, yards from the garret dwellings of Great Uncle Boozy Boam; down cast iron steps we tread, and into the gloom of Purl. 'We' is Ms Kina Lillet and I, seeking refuge from the cold afternoon on this Eve of all the Hallows. We seat ourselves on an ageing Chesterfield. We peruse an ancient, yellowing page of menu. Out from among the bricks and cobwebs, candles aglow in corners, steps our ghostly waitress. All in black, she totters to take our order. </span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Whilst we dither and decide, I sense something amiss. Why does she stare at me so? It's as if, somehow, she knows me. Unnerved, I order drinks. Demurely she departs toward the bar, and to a trio of oddly attired drinks concocters. They seem familiar, like twisted Boam portraits through the ages; all slicing, chopping, pouring, measuring. Their eyes flicker periodically towards me, and glitter and smirk. Smoke gushes forth in torrents.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">With a shudder, I turn toward Ms Lillet. I can't hide my fear, not from her. </span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">“What ever is the matter Mr Boam? You look so dreadfully pale all of a sudden.”</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">“Oh 'tis nothing Ms Lillet,” I parry bravely. “And do call me Jerry. I insist upon it.”</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">“If you say so, Jerry. It's frightfully scary though in here isn't it,” she grins with glee. “Why don't you tell me a story?”</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">And so I tell the only story the Boams can ever tell, the fated story of the Boam curse. “It all began,” I begin....</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">...our waitress returns with our drinks; drinks which match both the day and the tale: the otherworldly festival of Hallowe'en, and the tale about to stutter forth from pinkly trembling lips. Ms Lillet sips a Pumpkin Pie Flip, a creamy Bourbon affair with lip-zinging nutmeg sherbet around the rim and a 'Chicken Egg' lurking deep within. I have something entitled Mr Hyde's Fixer Upper. The presentation – in a wax-sealed glass flask – beguiles, but the drink seems a little peculiar: cola syrup has never been suited to the Boam palette.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">We chat, Ms Lillet and I, and soon we order further from our attentive waitress. She seems to be sliding into familiarity. Might I know her from some past dalliance? Thankfully the thought drifts away as more drinks arrive: for Ms Lillet, the Mummified Elixir cloaked in bloodied bandages; I, meanwhile, sup the Werewolf's Tincture; in effect an elaborately presented Negroni. The Negroni of course is a Boam favourite, and this one rather raises the spirits. Supplemented by 'Full Moon' pickled onions and 'Graveyard Mist' it's both omen and memento...</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Ms Lillet leans towards me, her hand brushes my raven-black lapel. She whispers close. “Continue, Jerry, your tale.”</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">“It all began,” I begin again, “in the days of Viscount Balthazar Boam. He was, as you know, a monumental carouser. Nothing, nothing escaped his rapacious whim – money of course being of no object. He was known up and down St James', throughout London, from the bedrooms of princesses to foul dens of the most base iniquities. The tales of his escapades could fill a book. Indeed, it's said that </span><span style="font-size: small;">such a book was written by one of his callously jilted mistresses. </span><span style="font-size: small;">And here lies the origin of the curse.”</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">“The curse?”</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">“Indeed. For Balthazar, it's said, had lost interest in this mistress and had her bricked up deep in the cellars beneath one of his properties. For days she screamed, for days she wept. But to no avail: she'd been left, she knew, to die.”</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">“How awful,” whispers Ms Lillet softly. Is she, could she be, smiling? She seems to take some strange pleasure from this vile family tale, a tale I've never told in full before. But something compels me to continue. Now, I shall never need tell it again...</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">“Her mind dark with avenging rage, this unknown mistress compiled a full inventory of every sin committed by the profligate Balthazar. It took a full day and a full night to compile the list, a list that would make the devil himself quake in awe and horror. She wrote, so the story goes, on old parchment left in the cellars long-since abandoned. Instead of ink she used her own blood, delicately drawn from her snow-white upper arm. Rumour has it she survived for weeks, slowly losing energy, weight, flesh; gradually, painfully wasting out of this life, and into the next. Her dying words were the curse – the curse that still haunts the Boams to this day: to die an unknown death, never to be found or buried, never accounted for, never blessed, never freed. The Boams must roam eternal. It is our fate.”</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Ms Lillet's tongue caresses her lips, her mouth twisting towards a grin? It must be the remnants of her Elixir, its flavour softly clinging. “But what happened to the parchment?”</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">“That,” I reply, suddenly struck by the hunger in her greenish grey eyes, “remains a mystery.”</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">“Perhaps I can help with that.” It's our waitress, suddenly behind me. A chill gust nips the nape of my neck. I notice her upper left arm – gashed and raked, ancient wounds still raw and red. She grins a manic, blazing grin. And turns over our drinks menu – upon the other side, in darkly crimson scrawl, an unmistakable catalogue of sin. </span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">I turn toward Ms Lillet, “Kina!” The light flickers. Her hair glints grey. </span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Purl. Here, in this bricked up family cellar, I remain. The curse is lifted. The curse has just begun.</span></div>New London Cocktail Reviewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258852085903830506noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2947438026956452499.post-75534258418719698052010-11-05T10:05:00.000+00:002010-11-05T10:05:15.134+00:00Skylon, South Bank<div class="MsoPlainText" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Skylon</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Royal Festival Hall<br />
Belvedere Road<br />
London<br />
SE1 8XX</span></div><div class="MsoPlainText" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoPlainText" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Glenn Fiddich<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoPlainText" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoPlainText" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Just after we arrived at Skylon, Fiddich Senior and I were<o:p></o:p> presented with two complimentary glasses of iced water and a tiny<o:p></o:p> porcelain bowl of rice crackers.</span></div><div class="MsoPlainText" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoPlainText" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Oh, I'm not sure we want any of these," said Fiddich Senior to our<o:p></o:p> waitress, who looked like an extra from the first series of Star Trek.<o:p></o:p> "Whatever they are."</span></div><div class="MsoPlainText" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">"They're Japanese," she said, with the tiniest of sighs. "To go with<o:p></o:p> your drinks."</span></div><div class="MsoPlainText" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Fiddich Senior, whose admiration for Vesta beef curries has remained<o:p></o:p> undimmed by the passing of the years, looked pained.</span></div><div class="MsoPlainText" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">"Yes, I think we'll give them a miss," he said. On the eve of his sixtieth<o:p></o:p> birthday, my father was about to try his first cocktail, and he was<o:p></o:p> determined not to enjoy it.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">You see, Fiddich Senior comes from a little village in Cumbria - let's<o:p></o:p> call it Ramsbottom. All the ales in his local boozer have names like<o:p></o:p> Badger's Arse and Get Your Tits Out. In Ramsbottom, any man ordering a<o:p></o:p> drink in a long-stemmed glass is regarded with the very deepest<o:p></o:p> suspicion. But my tales of Skylon, with its grand river views and<o:p></o:p> gourmet bar snacks, had intrigued him. We've always had a rather<o:p></o:p> competitive father-son relationship (every Sports Day, he used to<o:p></o:p> abandon me in the Parents' Race and team up with a thinner, faster<o:p></o:p> child), and he likes to prove me wrong. So he booked a return ticket<o:p></o:p> to Euston and prepared himself to be disappointed. He was, he told me<o:p></o:p> firmly, really only coming down to London to visit the Imperial War<o:p></o:p> Museum.<o:p></o:p> </span></div><div class="MsoPlainText" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">With the crackers gone, Fiddich Senior turned his attention to the<o:p></o:p> Skylon cocktail menu, which is divided into classics (Martini,<o:p></o:p> Margarita and several others beginning with M), seasonal specials,<o:p></o:p> Bellinis and desert cocktails. As I talked him through the various<o:p></o:p> options, he looked longingly at the whiskys.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoPlainText" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">I decided to go for my usual, the Skylon Spritzer (Apperol and rhubarb<o:p></o:p> with a lemon and grapefruit twist, topped up with sparkling wine),<o:p></o:p> while Fiddich Senior, after much hmming and tutting, chose the<o:p></o:p> Prunelle (fresh plums muddled shaken with Prunelle plum liqueur,<o:p></o:p> Krupnik honey vodka, lemon and apple juice).<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoPlainText" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">"Very good for the digestion, plums," he told our waitress when she brought the<o:p></o:p> drinks over. "Well, here goes." Then he took a deep breath, lifted his<o:p></o:p> glass (a Martini glass, never to be mentioned in Ramsbottom) and took<o:p></o:p> a cautious sip through pursed lips.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">"Well?" I asked. Fiddich Senior swilled the contents of his mouth<o:p></o:p> around, looking thoughtful.<o:p></o:p> </span></div><div class="MsoPlainText" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">"Room spray," he said eventually. He wiped his mouth with the back of<o:p></o:p> his hand. "But nice room spray." He took another sip, a bigger one this<o:p></o:p> time, and smiled. "You know, I might have another one of these. And some of<o:p></o:p> those Japanese things, too."<o:p></o:p></span></div>New London Cocktail Reviewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258852085903830506noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2947438026956452499.post-31563332650561212372010-10-28T22:59:00.012+01:002010-10-29T09:46:11.463+01:0069 Colebrooke Row, Angel<div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">69 Colebrooke Row</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">London</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">N1 8AA</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Kina Lillet</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">A bad start. </span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">The first time I passed through the unassuming glass doors at 69 Colebrooke Row was for a rendez-vous with an old flame. I was reluctant to see him again, given the amusingly disastrous nature of our split, but consented provided that he agreed to the following terms: 1) not a word about our relationship would pass his lips and 2) we met at Colebrooke Row.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">An amusing story.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">I hadn’t even had a chance to digest my surroundings when he began to proffer a post-mortem relationship analysis and apology. Needless to say, I wasn’t interested and so for him, the evening ended badly, early, and in floods of tears. I, on the other hand, parked myself at the diminutive bar and began to drink my way through the entire menu. Though I didn’t make it quite to the end that first evening, I’ve subsequently sipped every drink on the menu.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">There’s something about a lone lady sitting at the bar that softens the heart of even the steeliest of bartenders, so I was well looked after. But it wasn’t until I proved my dedication to the palette by deducing that the orange blossom flavouring used in their Almond Ramos – a crazy concoction based on the Ramos gin fizz but made with orange blossom and almond, thickened to a whipped cream consistency with nitrous oxide canisters – was the same flavouring used in Ladurée’s delicious orange blossom macaroons, that the world of Tony Conigliaro was my oyster. Well, almost. Due to teething problems with the fabrication of the shells, I didn’t actually get to sample Tony’s take on the Prairie Oyster, but it sounded inspired: a tomato sphere “yolk” floating in a spiced vodka cocktail, slurped down all in one go.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">To compensate for the sheer awfulness of regaling me with tales of such marvels without actually allowing me to taste one, my friendly bartender pulled a bottle from behind the bar and whispered, “you must try this”. “This” was one of the most intense flavours to ever pass my lips: a house-distilled horseradish vodka. It was like drinking liquid wasabi. Colebrooke Row uses this essence of horseradish to construct the definitive Bloody Mary. And I know my Bloody Marys. The composite parts are arranged neatly in front of me – the horseradish vodka, house made celery salt, house bitters and an incredibly potent black pepper tincture – before being mixed with thick tomato juice. Like a puppy is not just for Christmas, a CR Bloody Mary is not just for brunch. This drink is far too dangerous for Eggs Florentine.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">While the menu changes seasonally, staples remain: CR’s take on Campari and Soda adds a dash of grapefruit bitters and their Bellini pairs green apple puree with almond blossom and prosecco. One of my favourite drinks on the menu’s current incarnation, the Spitfire, is made with CR house Cognac and Crème de Peche. It drinks like a smoky rainbow. Sounds ludicrous. Tastes delicious.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Sitting at this bar, you really come to appreciate the theatrics of good cocktail making. The dry ice martini is particularly diverting. On a more recent trip, my companion and I went out for a cigarette and came back to find our drinks overflowing with smoke onto the bar. It’s difficult to remember what they tasted like, to be honest. I was far too excited by the curlicues of smoke running through my fingers.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">While I haven’t perched at every bar in London nor supped every cocktail in the Big Book of Booze, I have done enough of both to know that 69 Colebrooke Row is something special.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">A happy ending, then.</span></div>New London Cocktail Reviewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258852085903830506noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2947438026956452499.post-80443547407971004062010-10-26T10:55:00.004+01:002010-10-26T11:20:05.226+01:00The Zetter, Clerkenwell<div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">The Zetter</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">St John's Square</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">86-88 Clerkenwell Road</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">London</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">EC1M 5RJ</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Jerry Boam</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Regular readers of New London Cocktail Review will doubtless be aware of <a href="http://newlondoncocktailreview.blogspot.com/2010/10/hix-soho.html">my passion</a> for the Negroni. Whilst our erstwhile founder Kina Lillet considers it dull – and in fact lambasted me for my stubborn insistence on drinking nothing but Negronis on our recent trip to Hix – I think perhaps she may be a little blinkered. I mean sure, a cocktail can be an adventure, but one needn't be Edmund Hilary every day of one's life. Must one?</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">No, the Negroni is a simple pleasure: a simple, seriously alcoholic pleasure, and one that's been my drink of choice since birth. It's in the Boam blood. Great Uncle Boozy Boam (Marylebone branch) is famed for his frankly intimidating take on the Italian classic. Or was – a life of sauce-fuelled indolence has left him guzzling Special Brew on his death bed. 'Tis a fate I hope we all can aspire to. </span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Anyway, the point here is that, done properly, the Negroni is a thing of great subtleties. Crisp, bitter and persistently ginny, it's a timeless medicine for the gentleman of refinement. Imagine therefore, if you will, my horror at the pissy little excuse for the drink served up to me (in the company of Ms Lillet no less!) in the bar at The Zetter in Clerkenwell. </span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Possibly I should have seen it coming, but the sense of shock was no less keen. On entering the absurdly named establishment, I commented (under my beery breath): “Why, this place looks like a hotel bar or some such similar dreadfulness.” “That's probably,” replied Lillet in a trice, “because it is.” Oh. I see.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">To our seats then, and Lillet orders an Aperol Spritz; I the fateful Negroni. The former comes in a pint-sized ludicrous goblet thing and has more ice than the Boam's partridge freezer; it tastes of nothing. But this nothing is heaven compared to the latter, urgh the latter. The key to a Negroni, like the Boam prose, is balance – it must cleanse and calm and soothe, and needle and taunt and spur the drinker on to ever greater feats. If I, perish the thought, were ever to become a donkey, the Negroni would be both my carrot and my stick. </span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">But this, this little pot of fecklessness, was all horribly off-kilter – a thin, anaemic little thing, with no bite and barely enough booze to souse a squirrel. Pointless, heart-rendingly pointless. I could have cried, were it not for the fact that we'd only stopped off on the way to Marylebone, and a heartily-anticipated Boam family knees-up. If there's one thing that makes up for the horror of a terrible Negroni, it's eight heart-shudderingly perfect ones immediately afterwards. That's the Boam way.</span></div>New London Cocktail Reviewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258852085903830506noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2947438026956452499.post-28868415885881829092010-10-25T12:15:00.000+01:002010-10-25T12:15:39.325+01:00Casita, Old Street<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Casita <br />
5a Ravey St <br />
London EC2A 4QW</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Lee Moncello </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Casita: less like a little house, more like a garage. A small drop-in, on a small street, with a small loo. Three bar stools; hardly more beer taps. Espresso machine (for martinis). Fruit (for batidas). No tapas (don’t ask). </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Nice spirits: Beefeater, Abuelo, Arette. The cocktail menu’s a plastic peg board. Lists classics (mojitos, margaritas) and bar signatures (Kizmet, Oriental). But anything goes. Owner Will Foster trained with Jake ‘Portobello Star’ Berger. He knows cocktails - loves tequila. Evangelical about his verdita. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Green & Red’s gone – now Casita’s the best tequila east of Soho. Hearts are warm. Drinks are cold. Just don’t ask for a coffee. </span></div>New London Cocktail Reviewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258852085903830506noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2947438026956452499.post-47792898189893668272010-10-11T20:46:00.011+01:002010-11-01T08:37:56.624+00:00HIX, Soho<div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">HIX</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">66-70 Brewer Street</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">London</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">W1F 9UP </span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Kina Lillet</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">I stood in front of a heavy wooden door on Brewer Street on a sunny Saturday afternoon and looked forlornly at a heavy wooden door separating me from HIX.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">"It looks closed," I said glumly to my associate, Jerry Boam, "what kind of drinking den is closed on a Saturday afternoon?" Luckily I thought to try the door and when I pushed on it, it swung satisfyingly open. Because I knew the bar was downstairs I wasted no time chatting to the overly inquisitive staff on the door or even looking around the ground-floor restaurant. I’ve eaten at the St John Street operation and I know the food is mouth watering: get me to the cocktail list.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">At the bottom of the stairs, we found ourselves with a most agreeable situation: a beautiful bar and it was ours, all ours. I wanted to move in. Literally. We fell into plush chesterfields at one end of the room and sighed at the sight of the cocktail menu. After considerable perusal of the entirely too wordy menu, JB decided not to stretch himself with one of the more adventurous looking delights and plumped for old faithful. By which I mean he had a Negroni. Which tasted like a Negroni.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">I, on the other hand, was craving an Amaretto Sour, but for the benefit of you dear reader, took the bullet to find out what <a href="http://www.hixsoho.co.uk/wines/40/">HIX’s cocktail wizard</a> was capable of. I ordered a Forbidden Sour. Once I got over the inanity of ordering such a ridiculously-named drink, I could appreciate the subtlety of the thing. Initial impressions of the drink - composed of Julian Temperley's Apple eau de vie and Galliano L'Authentico - were favourable, but an unexpected anise seed after taste gave me pause. The next round saw me cave in and order that Amaretto Sour with he-the-next-chesterfield-over sticking with the Negronis. He said they were delicious. I wasn’t interested. The Amaretto Sour was predictably satisfying: sweet, but lip-puckeringly sour. Honestly, I could drink them all day.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Given that a rather large dish of cobnuts appeared on our table out of nowhere, top marks for bar snacks.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">HIX is the sort of place I’d like to live in. It’s like a heavenly IKEA. You go in; you lose track of time; you forget there’s natural light outside; you can’t find your way out. But you don’t give a damn, because the barman is just about to bring you another Amaretto Sour.</span></div>New London Cocktail Reviewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258852085903830506noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2947438026956452499.post-17985726793851842522010-09-09T16:46:00.002+01:002010-10-25T12:18:13.356+01:00Hawksmoor, Shoreditch<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Hawksmoor<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">157 Commercial Road<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">London <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">E1 6BJ<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Gina Tonic<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Due any moment now to open a second beefy instalment in Covent Garden, Hawksmoor is quite the darling of the London massive-plates-of-meat scene.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> Indeed, hundreds of reviews have been written about their mind-bendingly good steaks and <a href="http://londonreviewofbreakfasts.blogspot.com/2010/03/hawksmoor-spitalfields.html">gluttonous breakfasts</a>, and I for one join the consensus that Will Beckett and Huw Gott should probably the knighted and given big leather crowns.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">I like to think of myself as a regular Hawksmoor customer, living as I do in the curious cityboy vs creeyaytiv wannabe wasteland we call Shoreditch.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> Sadly, until my premium bonds come up trumps, I can only really class myself as a frequenter of the bar.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">But my, what a bar.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> With only seating for half a dozen or so, a seat up front promises you one of the most beautiful views in London – a bar so well stocked with unusual and small batch spirits, home-made fresh fruit macerations, and a catalogue of gins so vast that simply the thought of it brings a tear to my <a href="http://ginlanebar.blogspot.com/">fanatical</a> eye.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> Some of the finest cocktails are served here, in this unassuming ex-office something-or-other on Commercial Street, for a very reasonable price - most weighing in at around the £7.50 mark.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> The cocktail list, like any good menu, changes with the seasons, but with a confident lean towards the classic spirits - gin, brandy, whiskey and rum – and a selection of Juleps unparalleled in this fair city.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> For the record, the Hawksmoor Fizz, a mouth-watering gin and orange flower water concoction, replete with home-made rhubarb syrup, is a must.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">And if that’s not enough gushing for you, the barmen, too, are exceptional. </span><span style="font-size: small;"> Award-winning in fact, and always more than happy to make off-menu cocktail requests… not that you’d really need to of course.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> They suggest cocktails to suit your tastes, they serve gin Bloody Marys at breakfast, they go out and get the Saturday Guardian for you in the mornings, they carry your shopping home and they never forget your mother’s birthday.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">If you haven’t been, I suggest you go there at once.</span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">And perhaps order a medium-rare, 900g Chateaubriand on the side.</span><o:p></o:p></div>New London Cocktail Reviewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258852085903830506noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2947438026956452499.post-50723675126463805782010-08-25T16:04:00.007+01:002010-10-11T20:49:33.059+01:00Welcome to The New London Cocktail Review<div style="font-family: inherit;">No manifesto.</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;">Here at NLCR we drink our Daiquiris with dry ice, our Martinis Hemingway dry, and our Sazeracs with a chap named David in a dive bar in Dalston.</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;">We love nothing more than a beautiful cocktail at the end of a hard day's work. Or at the beginning of one. Or best of all, instead of one.</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="mailto:ldncocktails@gmail.com">Get in touch.</a></div>New London Cocktail Reviewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17258852085903830506noreply@blogger.com0