Farewell to the East Room - Friday 12th March 2010

It was with great sadness that I received the email from my friends at this once great bar, that the East Room, along with Sosho Match had fallen victim to the recent fire on Great Tabernacle Street. Many a drunken evening had been spent both on that rooftop and in the bar by yours truly, the Northerner, and Heavy D amongst others, indulging in the fine wines and great ambience that the place had in abundance.
the East Room crew are now dealing with the consquences of the fire, including insurance, staff relocation and the likes, and are hoping to rebuild a bigger, better place. Time can only tell whether they can pull it off, but fingers crossed from this punter.

Groove is in the heart - Pure Groove, Smithfields Market

Hybrid shopping experiences have been the rage for a while now. Retailers with coffee shops, tea rooms and occasionally bars. Coffee shops with hairdressers. Pubs with vintage clothes shops. You name it, they've tried it, usually to good effect. Although I draw the line at estate agents cum cafes. However the classic combination of music store and bar is nearly as old as I am, yet still so winningly effective. And none more so in good old London town then Pure Groove in Smithfields Markets. The Northerner and I dropped in on Friday night when the venue was hosting a DJ session by the Lost Boys (I think that's what they were called) and the place was humming. Pure Groove markets itself as an every-changing venue that includes record shop, art gallery and cafe / bar, but on Friday night it was a well worked combination of them all with a little bit of pre-club thrown it. The clientele are the Smithfield creative set of graphic designers, and film and advertising types, and (on this night anyway) very male. But all in a laidback funky way, as opposed to football loving lads.

The drinks are your standard offering of semi-exotic lagers (read that as Asahi and Corona) and spirits, mixed and served with the enthusiasm and panache of a student bar. And I mean that in a good way.

We knocked by several drinks and watched the crowd shift from animated conversation to bobbing about grooving and dancing as the beats and the beers kicked in.

This is the best Smithfield bar I've been into in a while now, and complements the equally strong Old Red Cow pub down the road. I like this bar a lot and will definitely go back again. If you like the funkier side of things I recommend that you give it a whirl.

The Sterling Pub, The Gherkin Building

The Gherkin is one of the most iconic buildings in our capital and a wonderful and relatively recent, addition to the London skyline. Or so you would think, although it proved a tad confusing for Heavy D when I suggested we meet for drinks at the downstairs bar - The Sterling. Where is the Gherkin? he asked. Well, try the large, gherkin shaped building which you can and every other person in the square mile can see from your office. Honestly.

Anyway, having overcome Heavy's navigational challenges, me and Young Elvis rocked down the to the Sterling for a cheeky after work drink to celebrate his recent offer of a job in Hong Kong. I'd never been before. Don't worry, said Elvis, it's great in summer. Except of course this is London in October so the benefits of the outside space, as pictured, are not immediately obvious.

So inside we went ,where the 90% male, suited clientele were settling into that Friday session of lager and thinking about ladies. The latter of which they were clearly in the wrong place for. Heavy finally arrived, having managed to find a colleague who was actually bigger then him, and immediately began remarking on the lack of women. It is a city bar I quipped, what do you expect. Nevertheless what the Sterling is, or was, lacking is not so much women, but something far more important to a bar. An atmosphere. The place itself is all clean lines and modern furniture, but as in a newly refitted All Bar One, rather then Phillipe Starck. The drinks are your standard mix of lagers, spirits and wine by the pint. After a couple of hours of this party madness, and with the Don (who I was meant to be meeting) apparently stuck in the Wharf, I bade my farewells.

The Sterling has a lot going for it - location, great service, and in summer it's probably a sun trap. However unless you're someone who genuinely enjoys being surrounded by suited and booted men from the middle to lower echelons of banking and finance, I'd steer it a wide berth. Maybe there was a lot more to Heavy being unable to find it then I give him credit for.

Stop the press - Luytens, Fleet Street

A sense of deja vu is common amongst those of us who spend too much time in bars and restaurants. Sometimes places look and seem eerily familiar only for you to realise that they are part of a 'chain' albeit a subtle one (read, different names) Often a venue will simply rename and redesign itself as a supposedly hip new spot - which invariably is never the case. However Luytens on Fleet Street - the spiritual home of British journalism - triggers a different emotion altogether as it occupies the site formerly owned by Reuters. The world's largest news agency and media giant which was also my employer for some six years.

Heavy D and I were out to celebrate his move to the Barbican and he suggested we go to this relatively new addition to the Conran portfolio. And I must say, I was impressed. First upon entering the cocktail bar, you notice that they've enhanced what was actually a rather shoddy interior whilst still retaining many charming artifacts to reflect its journalistic heritage - pictures of Julius Reuters himself for example. Moving to the back of the building where a friend of mine and her data management team used to reside, is now the modern white-on-white decorated restaurant. You can tell its upmarket by the fact that there are two waiters / waitresses to every table, an old school retro British menu with a twist, and prices that make you hesitate before you order.

The Heavy one kicked off with an Assiette de charcuterie, which was a sizable and very tasty portion of the great and not always so great of the meat world. My lobster mouse was light, subtle and wonderfully flavoured. I have to admit I had been unsure as the whether the dish would succeed. More fool me. For mains I took on the suckling pig with crackling - moist, perfectly seasoned and near pink perfect, while Heavy hit the Roast Rabbit, bacon and mustard which he declared as successful.

We rocked through a gorgeous new world pinot noir (Chilean I believe?) and a sherry to round off the night, both recommended by the sommelier and both matching expectations.

The place was full of the city types that most people now despise, but who were clearly immune to the credit crunch as thy ordered drinks and food with abandon.

It's not a place I would go to celebrate a special occasion - it certainly isn't romantic - and if anything its let down by being too 'city'. However that's being picky as it does what it sets out to do very well, all of which is made easier by the wonderful and attentive staff. My old Reuters buddies are now keen to try it. I recommend they go at least once. It's a vast improvement on the old staff canteen.

Back up on the Roof - The East Room Roof Garden

One of the challenges of writing a blog dedicated to your nightlife is avoiding repetition. Despite the fact that there are thousands of bars, restaurants and pubs in London town it stands to reason that you won't visit them all And of course there are some that become favourites, often merely for the reason that they are close to where you work or live, that you visit time and again. And there are places that you love, and with that busy London work thing going on, these are where you go to for that after work 'breather'. For my good self this includes close to home favourites like the Florence and Prince Regent in Herne Hill, and great funky pubs such as The Golden Heart and Ten Bells in Shoreditch. And sometimes a place is so good that you actually part with hard earned cash and become a lifetime member, and it is the East Rooms, part of Milk and Honey group.
And so with the recent weeks of glorious sunshine the Northerner, Heavy D and I have been making the most of that membership. Assuming that you like roof garden bars - and I have yet to meet anyone that doesn't - there are several things that make the East Room's stand out. It's a working functioning garden - they grow herbs, fruit and the like up there which they serve in the restaurant downstairs. On sunny evenings they crank up the best BBQ I've come across in London town, which given my Antipodean heritage is saying something. It's probably a combination of very good ingredients (burgers, sweet corn, sausages, marinated chicken etc), and a man who actually cooks, rather then burns or heats food, that makes the food so memorable. It also has a 24 hour licence in the weekends which means that it’s full to its brim with party people whom, despite being part of a members club, are surprisingly friendly. But then I guess most people are after record temperature hot days, an Ashes victory and several ice-cold beers.
There’s probably no need for me to say anything else about this place as not only is it so popular that membership is about to be or is already closed, but I also have a small army of ‘friends’ queuing up to join me for drinks there. And trust me; it isn’t because of my conversation. One word of warning – this place is so good that Heavy himself – a man who parts with money as willingly as the All Blacks do a rugby world cup - is thinking of joining. You have been warned.

Poetic Justice - The Water Poet, Shoreditch

There are three things which I tend to dislike in a pub. In no particular order they are; venues with an all male / suited clientele; Fosters (or a similarly cheap lager) on tap; and a large Sky Sports screen. Lad pubs in every sense. Each of these elements on their own is sometimes tolerable, but two or even worse all three condemns it to a place that shall not enjoy my patronage. And I’m sure you can appreciate the impact of that protest on the brewery industry.
My first impression of the Water Poet near Spitalfields market was on a visit with Heavy D and the Rock Star and it struck us that it was a beautiful old fashioned East End boozer whose owners had foolishly taken down the Lad pub route. Sky sports screen, wall to wall ‘suits’ and Stella on tap. Although Heavy seemed to like it. I went back again a few weeks later and still, unable to get past the throngs of lager swilling bankers in the front bar, left with the same impression. Why does the City insist on ruining potentially great venues?
However I am nothing if not persistent, and after a pleasant afternoon of shopping around Brick Lane with the Northerner I decided to give it one more try, albeit in a weekend. And thank goodness I did. In the weekend the place is transformed into the scruffy cool Bohemian type pub that is hidden beneath during the week.
The interior which is all maroon and leather with tatty and restored pieces of furniture has several spacious rooms consisting of the front bar, lounge bar, pool room and a private side room. While the garden bar, which is probably the most spacious within the confines of the City square mile, is all urban industrial in style yet relaxing in ambience. Plus it is a suntrap, which is what you want in any garden bar. Apparently the do a superb Sunday lunch but we were too late to try the food thing. Nevertheless a good bottle of NZ Pinot Noir and a nice bit of people watching seemed to keep any hunger pangs at bay.
So I stand corrected and concede that the Water Poet is more then worthy of a visit, and may even become something of a regular on my pub circuit. But I would wait until the City boys have moved on.

Vintage Stuff - The Green, Clerkenwell

Listening to feedback is not one of my strengths. As per the tabs at the base of this blog, if you don't think I'm funny, interesting or cool, then 1) I assume you don't know me; 2) you haven 't heard or read me; 3) you have a problem; or 4) a combination of points 1, 2 and 3. However every so often you have to doff your proverbial cap to someone who has both superior knowledge and experience in your chosen field. Thus it was that when I met the Design Journalist - who has an impressive record of writing and editing in broadsheet newspapers and quality magazines to her name - I thought I should pay attention. 'Nice blog but you should write about the food' she said.

And in an instant the editorial direction of this blog had changed and food from here on in, would receive equal billing with drinks. Despite the diet.

So on a warm Sunday afternoon in which the Northerner and I had spent hanging with the funky and pretty young things at the Clerkenwell Vintage Fair, we decided that we needed to find a place to rest our wary legs, take a drink or three and hopefully a spot of lunch. We stumbled on The Green in Clerkenwell - a fabulous little corner pub which came complete with three hip and funky bar staff / waiters, a rock n roll charged jukebox and best of all the promise of a 'legendary Sunday lunch'. Music to the our hungry ears. And the food was definitely very good if falling slight short of legendary. The Northerner's roast chicken seasoned with fresh herbs was succulent and flavoursome. I opted for the pork (apparently it's on my diet), which despite the fact that I had to leave the crackling was nicely seasoned and perfectly cooked. The roasted stuffed apple was a nice touch. Oh and any pub that gives you five (yes five) roast potatoes each plus a healthy smattering of greens and near perfect Yorkshire puddings is worth another visit. Desserts of rhubarb crumble and ice cream, and seasonal strawberries and cream were equally top notch.

The pub itself was full of well-off 30-somethings who can afford and choose to live in what is an undoubtedly affluent area - they seemed to be recovering from or topping up their hangovers which gave the place a buzzy atmosphere. Something which was amped up several notches when by chance we bumped into Heavy D, his bro the Photographer and my new friend / cum critic the Design Editor. A couple of raucous rounds and attention-demanding stories later and I don't think anyone was in the mood for stemming the flow of drinks, much less leaving until common sense prevailed. But back to the Green, which is a lovely little pub, and merits at least a visit for the food alone. Did you see I mentioned food again? Who says I don't do feedback.

Fishing in the Market - Applebees, Borough Market

Dieting is an ugly word in the small New Zealand town where I'm from. People don't talk about or understand the concept. They certainly don't do it. So when I met the Northerner and Heavy D at our old favourite the Golden Heart for a couple of after work sharpeners, and explained to them that yours truly was 'counting calories', they were sceptical to say the least. 'It's a health thing' I claimed as I sipped on my cranberry and slimline tonic and looked longingly at their lime topped lagers.

Disbelieving friends aside, the other challenge I've encountered is finding 'good food' to eat that meets my carefully prescribed menu plan. When bread, red meat and chips are off the menu it tends to eliminate a lot of my favourite casual eating haunts.

Fortunately fish is one of the recommended dishes and happens to be a personal favourite, so having sufficiently bored my two friends with my nutritional conversation points , the Northerner and I rocked down to the wonderful Borough Market and dropped into Applebees.

This place does fish, shellfish and more fish with a serving of steak thrown in for good measure. No hip or pretty young things here, but a good collection of locals and people celebrating Friday night lights, which gave it the necessary buzz that the Northerner and I look for in a post-drinks eating place. The food was superb, the drinks were top quality and fairly priced, and the service was flirtatiously inefficient which worked just fine for the tipsy clientele. It's not as loud as nearby Black and Blue, as upmarket as Roast, nor as busy-crowded as Wright Brothers Oyster Bar, but it's a fine little venue nevertheless, and a hands down winner on the fish front. Whether it worked for my diet will be revealed in Monday's weigh-in.

Pitcher and Piano, Bishopsgate

Defining exactly what it is that makes a bar or pub bad can be tricky. One person’s upmarket and cool, is another person’s overpriced and pretentious. One person’s ‘party atmosphere and dancing’ bar is cheesy and laddish to others. However one thing that everyone seems to agree on though is that chain pubs are bad.
This is perhaps unfair. For many years I loved a now departed chain of pubs that worked a pun into their name to wonderful comic effect – come along and have a Firkin good time went the marketing. So clever. Yet the Northerner and many other people I know despised them with venom. Other chains such as Jamie’s, Wetherspoons, Davy’s and the like have all drawn their fair share of praise and scorn in equal measure. Although everyone I know dislikes All Bar One – conservative, repetitive and bland, they are the Coldplay of bars.
Of course it’s easy to knock chain bars. The very concept of replica-fit drinking haunts conjures up images of Starbucks and McDonalds, and sadly many of these chains were the pub equivalents of those two American institutions.
One chain that has been around for as long as I’ve been in this glorious country is the Pitcher and Piano and on Friday we schlepped across to the Bishopsgate branch to for the leaving drinks of the Cricketer. A popular young man is our Cricketer and he attracted a good turnout, all overcoming their concerns at his choice of venue. P&P on Bishopsgate is very much in the ‘party atmosphere and dancing’ camp, with cheap drinks a plenty, loud cheesy music, and boys and girls dressed to the nines for a bit of after work fun and flirting. And it depends on your take on what I’ve just said as to whether it can be declared a good or bad bar, but regardless the place was certainly full of atmosphere as my colleagues and I veered towards the disgraceful side of being drunk. There are no pretty young things or urban hipsters here. There are few if any people over 30, and even less over 40. There is a lot of shouting, and dancing that looks like stumbling, and stumbling that looks like falling. There are big rounds of drinks complete with shots and cheap champagne. Whether any of these ingredients make it a good bar I’m not sure. The Northerner and Heavy D most certainly didn’t think so. But it is a fun bar, and I guess that’s all you can ask for from a chain.

Birthday blues – Club Gascon and Vinoteca, Smithfield Markets

Birthdays aren’t what they used to be. When we were younger we would go out with a gang of friends on a Friday night (regardless of what day your birthday was) and buy or be bought drinks until we fell over. Chips, burgers or food from a petrol station was the closest thing you had to a meal. Then the next day, severely hung-over we would try and convince our parents that our studies /part-time job were going well but not to bother with a present as we needed cash for ‘books’.
Nowadays the ‘gang’ are often busy tending to partners, careers and in some cases children. The parents don’t want to speak to us lest it remind them of how old they actually are. And with an age and in some cases a waistline, heading towards or north of 40, one tends to think twice as to how much noise you want to make about the event.
Heavy D’s annual coming of age nearly slipped me by if it hadn’t been for my social lifeline that is Facebook (fact, guys, never, ever remember their mates birthday’s unless it falls on a significant date like Xmas or payday). ‘I don’t want to celebrate’ he groaned. Well too bad as I did, so under duress the Heavy one agreed to meet me in Smithfield’s for a night of drinks and eats.
After a couple of sharpeners at the Red Cow, we headed down to Club Gascon for an aperitif or two. We were joined by Heavy’s brother the Photographer, who is as thin, fashionable and edgy as we are large, unfashionable and uncool. He was on cracking form and he regaled us with stories about which celebrities and or sports stars are / are not gay (all of them apparently) and the perils of life as a pictures man ,while eying up the pretty young boy things in the bars. Quality fella.
Gascon is a beautiful place with a reputation to match, and although we only did wine and starters there it didn’t disappoint. Superb food and drinks, and a very relaxed, albeit quiet, atmosphere. It’s definitely a place to impress a first date as its quite romantic. However given the lads were not on a date or in the slightest bit feeling romantic we rocked around the corner to Vinoteca on St Johns street.
This is ostensibly a wine shop that serves food but that description doesn’t do the place justice. The place has the ambience of the best French brasserie and pulls of that neat trick of sitting you close enough to your fellow diners that you can almost hear their every word, but not so close that it’s an inconvenience. The food was superb, the wine was gorgeous, and the service, despite being from New Zealand, was pretty damned good also. I focused on knocking back a beautiful bottle of Chablis while the brothers Grim debated endless points about their childhood. So a good night had by all.
I must try Club Gascon for dinner, but my pick of the two is Vinoteca for its more rustic feel and buzzy atmosphere. And I won’t be waiting for my next birthday to go again.

Drinking prohibited - Jamaica Wine House and Prohibition, the City

This weekend may have been the tipping point. When I finally concede that going out drinking and partying hard all weekend is a young person’s game. A game from which a person should retire graciously not disgracefully. A game that isn’t good for you.

The only problem is that it’s so much damned fun - so enough of the remorse and on with the recap. Friday night lights saw a motley crew of Heavy D, the Engineer, the Running Man and yours truly descend upon the wonderfully misnamed Jamaica Wine House. In tow were two guys from work, who by virtue of being born in the eighties were boy band like compared to the aging rock star that we were in both physique and style. The Jamaica Wine House is not the type of place I imagine you would find in Jamaica. Nor is it a ‘Wine House’ in the traditional sense, but a lovely old fashioned pub. However apparently it is on the site of London’s first coffee house from back in 1652 and apparently the ‘new’ pub is 19th century. So like all things English – it’s very old. It’s also very, very good and the gang and the boy band settled into a hearty male-bonding session based on talking about ourselves. The foundation stones of any good drinking session.

The boy band departed, probably in search of someone younger and more interesting people to talk to and the remaining crew kicked on for a nightcap or three at Prohibition on Bishopsgate. Prohibition is a bar in the genre as Strawberry Moons and Abacus – cheap drinks, cheesy music and a good times atmosphere. Cool it most certainly isn’t but it’s the sort of place that is common across the UK with the main difference being that in the London variety people tend to come straight from work. So suit city then. I was criticised Braveheart recently for not saying anything bad about any bars I reviewed, as if to imply this was a bad thing. I will give him this then – Prohibition, as with the rest of its brethren, is not a great bar, but it is a lot of fun, and a good place to indulge in some serious partying. But be warned; it's a young persons game.

Living in Sin – Living Room and Strawberry Moons, Heddon Street

I had I had never heard of the expression ‘commuter belt’ until I arrived in the UK. It took me a long time to realise what it meant, and even longer to know people who aspired to, or worse did actually live there. Yet as I sat on a train to Epsom over the weekend, I was still none the wiser as to why anyone on earth would want to become part of that scene. I mean it’s not the city, and it’s definitely not the country, but it isn’t really the suburbs either. Rather it’s a collection of people who like semi-detached houses, Chinese takeaways, 4 X  4’s, Waterloo train station and shopping in Waitrose. In that order. Plus someone even tutted at me when I went to open a beer on the train. I mean tutting – who ever does that in real life?

However it is obviously good for kiddies (why people who live in these areas say kiddies instead of kids or children I’ll never know), and given the houses that these people live in its very good for barbecues. Thus the reason I found myself at the Quiff and Texas Embassy girls place for a superb afternoon of sunshine, drinks, and several variations of meat, not to mention some pretty damned fine company. However after several hours of the Engineer and I enlightening (or some might say boring) the other guests on the intricacies of rugby, Heavy D declared time and we headed into town to meet his dear friend Radio 4 for a cheeky vino at Living Room in Heddon Street.

Living Room is one of those bars that I have spent many an evening in with the Northerner given its close proximity to fashion city, and it is a splendid place. I’d never been on a Saturday before mind you, and was pleasantly surprised that the normal collection of Mayfair suits and fashion buyers had been replaced by good natured tourists and overloaded shoppers all enjoying the al fresco drinking and general ambience of the street. The bar serves a great selection of wine by what seems the pint, and has some nice laid back ‘lounge bar’ music going on which isn’t as bad as it sounds. The place is hardly hip but everyone pays a lot of attention to how they look which seems to pay off. By coincidence I even bumped into the Don who was on a night out with an ‘acquaintance’. Whatever. It was good to see him and after bading farewell to Radio 4, we rounded off the night at the atrociously down market Strawberry Moons where we caught up with the Don and his ‘acquaintance’. This bar is an institution and with its cheesy music, oversized cocktails and fun and frills mix, it’s a hen party magnet. Which of course tends to attract a certain type of fella. Ånd after several hefty beers Heavy and I decided to call it a night after the staggering realisation that we had finally stumbled upon a bar too downmarket even for us. And given that I have spent a night at the Reflex in Cardiff that is saying something.

But the Living Room is definitely a great watering hole, and Heddon Street on a sunny evening is a superb place to soak in all that’s good about the West End. And even dear old Strawberry Moons held up well in the spotlight. Although I suspect a lot of their patrons are from the commuter belt.

Tapas par excellence – Dehesa, Soho

The first time I ever had tapas was not in the sunshine in Seville, Valencia or many of the other splendid cities of Spain, but on a grey September evening in Clapham in South London on my first day in the Northern Hemisphere. Heavy D took it upon himself to introduce me to a dose of instant Iberian culture and we went to the venerable institution that is La Rueda on the Clapham High Street which he declared was as authentically Spanish as a sombrero. Indeed. Nevertheless La Rueda introduced me to things such as gazpacho (cold soup?), chorizo and Pulpo a la Gallega - all of which were exotic dishes for a boy from the Antipodes.
Many years on and several visits to the aforementioned Spanish cities later, I’d turned into one of those bores who complain that you could never get the quality of food, not to mention dollops of sunshine, that you seemed to trip over on every corner in Spain. This of course has been proved patently wrong several times in recent years with the gorgeous but expensive Fino and the wonderful Brindisa in Borough Market two of the standouts. For food not sunshine.
Last night the Northerner and yours truly finally made it to Dehesa off Carnaby Street after several, admittedly half-hearted attempts previously. This place has been ‘famous’ amongst foodies and fashionistas and media folks for a while now, and you can see why. Superb food and wine, and a nice crowded and buzzy ambience make it a perfect place for the chattering classes to swarm to, and eavesdrop if one is so inclined.
We were sat next to a group of actors one of whom seemed to speak endlessly about the sacrifices his art had to make for commercialism in trying to justify his auditioning for a cereal ad. On the other side was a couple who just had to be there as a consequence of an online dating site, so bereft were they of anything resembling a conversation. Example – have you ever been to Australia? Yes it’s great, you should go.
Ganton Street where Dehesa resides is now a destination in itself with the likes of The Diner, Zebrano and Mangosteen not to mention a couple of old boozers for good measure. And last night the summer evening saw groups of fashion retailers, hairdressers and tourists looking for ‘action’ drinking themselves into a pre-club frenzy. Quality. But Dehesa is the place you, and everyone else judging by the queue, want to go, and I must say it was well worth the wait.
And with no sangrias, cow bells, sol beer it’s a far cry from dear old La Rueda and the better for it. Although Heavy D might have something to say about that.

Ten rounds at the Ten Bells

Defining what and who is cool is a tricky thing. Of course there are some absolutes. Obama is cool. Gordon Brown is not. Samuel L Jackson is cool. Lenny Henry is not. Bat for Lashes are cool. Coldplay are not. London and New York are cool. New Zealand and Australia, and in fact anyone from there are / is not. That's what you get for being born in the Antipodes.
Friday night lights and the plan was to meet Scary Spice at Vinyl in Camden where her new boyfriend was hosting a club night. Excellent - a chance to strut my moves and embarrass myself in front of a new audience. Except a last minute call from Scary said there was a change of plan and we couldn't go. There were a lot of reasons she said. Not the right time, place etc. But reading between the many lines I think it's because although the Northerner is cool, yours truly is not. That's what you get for being born in New Zealand.

Undaunted, and feeling flush after a recent windfall the call went out and I met Heavy D and the Northerner at the Ten Bells on Commercial Street. This pub is apparently the local of Alexa Chung (who is cool) and others from the edgier music set. The place is full of graphic designer, fashion students, music heads and other creatives all of whom are most definitely cool. And Heavy D was there who most definitely is not. The pub was around in the time of Jack the Ripper, and to be honest, it looks as if little has been done in terms of decorations since then. The walls are still covered with the original tiles (very cool) with one area decorated with the most amazing handpainted mosaic. But of course you are there to spend a night on rather then admire the tiles, and the Bells comes up trumps on that front. The wine and beer selections are basic but decent, and with the now de rigeur 80's soundtrack pumping in the background (rock and goth that is cool, rather then pop that is not) this place kicks off. We stood outside with the other street urchins for the first half of the evening to make the most of the warm summer evening. Retreating inside around 830pm and the place was settling into that early doors delirium where the punters having long since abandoned their plans for the rest of the evening. Which include Heavy, the Northerner and yours truly ,who didn't leave as late as we might normally but were certainly worse for wear. I believe tired and emotional is the term.

The Bells is one of my favourite pubs in London and Friday didn't disappoint in terms of music, ambience, and festive spirit. That's why its taken me two days to write this blog. And who knows, if I go there often enough I might one day be mistaken for being cool.

Exchanging roof gardens for a square - Exchange Square

The plan was to head to a roof terrace for a St George's day Pimms. The Queen of Hoxton's to be precise. It was after all a gloriously sunny Thursday, the QOH ,formerly known as Industry, is both very close to where I work and a very funky and hip bar - after all Pixie(not Peaches) Geldof drinks there. Better still the QOH comes equipped with a large 'English country garden' style terrace, a feature that contrasts nicely to the urban uber-hip persona of the bar itself. Heavy D, as ever, was available so we both wobbled on down. One small problem. The terrace, albeit fully functional wasn't open. 'Private parties only senor' said the barman who I suspect wasn't local. The logic wasn't obvious to us or the bored looking hipsters draped over the furniture, so we bade our farewells and strolled 50 metres down the road for a bit of sunshine and Kirin's at Exchange Square.

You have to hand it to the English. In Europe if you get a clear bit of space behind a public amenity they'll turn it into a park with water features and the like. The English turn it into a glorified garden bar. Albeit with a water feature. Situated just behind Liverpool St station, Exchange Square is the effectively the border where the City meets Shoreditch. No pretty young things or hipsters at this place. The men are all dressed like they've stepped straight out of an Austin Reed catalogue, while the highly out-numbered women are appropriately corporate conservative. It's a bit like drinking in Canary Wharf - but without the river views. For bars you have a Davy's - a dull version of Jamies; and a Corney and Barrow - an interesting version of a Jamies. Spoilt for choice then.

However in spite of these 'features' the place actually works very well. It's a natural sun-trap that's buzzy and sets you up for the evening very nicely. The service was sharp, the beers worked a treat. It wasn't the QOH, but it was a lot of fun. I think its best to ignore me in future.

Mahiki tiki tavi

Mahiki in Mayfair seems to have become famous on the back of a certain pair of royal brothers, which is normally enough to put off a die hard republican (note the small 'r') like me. Fortunately the bar has a lot more to offer then wealthy toffs in polo shirts and baseball caps. Anyway, I hear they now go raving 'out East' nowadays. Friday night and a motley crew of commoners that included Heavy D, the Engineer, the Northerner, Texas Embassy girl and l headed out to Mahiki to celebrate the Quiff's birthday. 

The last time I had been there was to celebrate my own coming of age a year or so back and was pleased to see that all the elements that make it a great bar were still in place. Wonderfully mixed, high quality cocktails. Check. Classic seventies and eighties pop. Check. Bar staff dressed as extras from Hawaii 5 0. Check. 

We settled into one of the many upstairs booths and started attacking the cocktail menu. The Northerner and the Quiff got intimate with something Dark and Stormy, I got off with a Honolulu Honey, and Texas and the Engineer struck a rapport with the vodka based Fa'aene's. Heavy D drank beer. Crazy dude that he is.

The Quiff and Texas Embassy were heading out to dinner, so we said our farewells and after a few more sharpeners headed downstairs to carve up the dance floor. Well the Northerner did whilst the rest of us shuffled from side to side and tried not to look like minicab drivers. 

The places was rammed with gangs of pretty young things busting moves to a great DJ set that included the Clash, Abba, David Bowie, Wham and even some seventies Elvis. Too cool for school this place.  Eton and Harrow were obviously still on Easter break judging by the Prince Harry wannabes bouncing around, but they were harmless enough. Although I'll never quite get that turned up polo shirt collar look. 

The cocktails meanwhile were having the desired effect of getting everyone singing along to the likes of Spandau Ballet and Michael Jackson while the dance floor got cosy bordering on intimate. Which suited the boys just fine.

The Northerner and I finally hit the wall - literally at one stage in my case - around 1amish leaving the boys to try with what seemed like misplaced optimism, to chat up the Kate Middelton and Paris Hilton lookalikes that were leaping all over the dance floor. No doubt the reports will come in soon enough.

Now to find some berocca and maybe think about having a Bloody Mary. 

East is Best

Nothing cuts through class barriers quite so effortlessly in London as the local pub. Around Spitalfields where I frequent, are a fine collection of old boozers where fashion designers and creatives, newly poor bankers and original East Enders all get merrily drunk together with that Dunkirk spirit that is unique to the British. This is not a London that fans of Richard Curtis movies would recognise and is probably all the better for that.

The Northerner was out with some of the fashion set on a pub crawl of Gay Soho, so the call went out and Heavy D (formerly Big D, lest you were wondering), the Caister boy, the Engineer and yours truly all descended upon the Golden Heart on Commercial Street. The Golden Heart effortlessly mixes together old East End locals, with the creative and financial services set that have encroached on its territory, and manages it all with aplomb. An old fashioned jukebox and a steady flow of beers saw the crew singing along heartily to Rod Stewart's greatest hits - something I feel we managed very well, although I don't think the collection of French designers sat next to us thought so. And people say the French have sophisticated tastes.

From there we stumbled up Brick Lane, with the obligatory stop at the legendary Brick Lane Beigel before finishing the night at the Shoreditch version of Beach Blanket Babylon. This place gets some bad press and I'm not quite sure why. The place is more Peaches Geldof then Alexis Chung, and there's an awful lot of Class A action going on in there which I guess isn't everyones thing. However Heavy D certainly appreciated the pretty young things bouncing around the place and a great DJ throwing some good tunes down , accompanied by a steady flow of cocktails kept the crew entertained for several hours of mayhem.

One final point. I'm not sure that the crew's 'undercover polic chic' style suited the vibe of the place. Or any place for that matter. I am very sure it won't catch on. Next week we'll try the estate agent look.