Callooh Callay, Shoreditch

Callooh Callay

65 Rivington Street

London

EC2A 3AY

http://www.calloohcallaybar.com

Simon Barraclough

Callooh Callay

Excuse me please, my ear is full of milk—Oliver Hardy (Going Bye-Bye, 1934)

Wine comes in at the mouth, and love at the eye,

but any fule kno that milk comes in at the ear.

I hear that cocktails pour their thoughts

through the candlestick ‘phone at Callooh Callay

where patrons, wise and elegant, drink not

themselves under the table but clear through

the looking glass where the Jabberwock waits

with impeccable, unimpeachschnappsable taste.

If its brrr outside then there’s Byrrh within

knocking boots with a splash of Amer Picon,

Cointreau, anise, and a sly soupçon

of inside-out chat about this and that.

Fraternise with a passing Fratterwacken,

or pick from a platter of snicker-snacks

to whet the old whistle and I’ll come to you lad,

keep coming back for the Jubjub Bird

in its fresh minty nest of green olive eggs,

spirited anchovies pecking their way

through shell and through mirror to the secret chamber

beyond.

Ninety Eight Bar and Lounge, Shoreditch

Ninety Eight Bar and Lounge
98 Curtain Road
Shoreditch
London
EC2A 3AF
http://www.ninetyeight-bar-lounge.com/

Abby La Fée

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”).

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.

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:
“Dip your finger in, rub it on yourself, and lick it off”.  She says.
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.

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.

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.

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.

Hawksmoor, Shoreditch

Hawksmoor

157 Commercial Road

London

E1 6BJ

Gina Tonic

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.  Indeed, hundreds of reviews have been written about their mind-bendingly good steaks and gluttonous breakfasts, and I for one join the consensus that Will Beckett and Huw Gott should probably the knighted and given big leather crowns.

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.  Sadly, until my premium bonds come up trumps, I can only really class myself as a frequenter of the bar.

But my, what a bar.  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 fanatical eye.  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.  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.  For the record, the Hawksmoor Fizz, a mouth-watering gin and orange flower water concoction, replete with home-made rhubarb syrup, is a must.

And if that’s not enough gushing for you, the barmen, too, are exceptional.  Award-winning in fact, and always more than happy to make off-menu cocktail requests… not that you’d really need to of course.  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.

If you haven’t been, I suggest you go there at once.  And perhaps order a medium-rare, 900g Chateaubriand on the side.