Occupying the unit vacated by the late Rinky Dink on Clapham’s Hedonism Boulevard (aka the High Street), this is the celebrated house mu...
Thursday, 28 March 2013
Reason and Mankind, Fitzrovia
My favourite part about new after-work-late lounge, Reason and Mankind - named after Restoration poet John Wilmot's satirical critique of rationalism (says Wikipedia) - was its PR's filthy anecdote about Bette Davis and a vicious vagina. That's 'a' not 'her' to be clear. Coming at me conveyor belt-stylee, theatrical cocktails also keep me amused. Produced in a puff of smoke from under a top hat, a smoky rum and tea-infused port job is well, 'top hat' according to a fellow guest. I never get round to this one, too busy am I grappling with Salt of the Earth - a tequila, palo cortado and salted caramel tea fancy served with an edible 'snuff box'. The worst of the evening's hit'n'miss efforts (ratio 3:1), it's not one you really need to taste before you snuff it, I say. Much MUCH better is mezcal negroni, Rosita's Fire: smoky, sexy, butch - like 'Daniel Craig' says another guest - although I'd only rate the current 007 a 002.5. I mean, how could anyone look THAT bad in a Tom Ford tux? From the sublime back to the ridiculous: Silver Needle a creamy gin martini - served with tea and fuck-knows-what in a fat syringe that, otherwise filled, would Smack Your Bitch Up...big time...as another Keith sang it back in the day. Who would want to drink such madcap mixes? Well, Reason and Mankind is the cocktail lounge attached to Libertine, a rock'n'roll-ified reboot of what was previously Chinawhite. I haven't been to the new club per se, yet. And by the way she is eyeing me up and down, I'm not entirely sure Mr Libertine's wife would want me there. My best vest is no match for Calum Best, the sort of guest I guess would bowl in, no problem. My previous visit to Vaginawhite - my soubriquet for the old boite - lasted all of 3 minutes: radioactive orange slap on slappers not so much my bag. Another soiree in the club's original Soho home was even more unbearable. I was lured to a press dinner there a decade ago with the promise of a 'supermodel' as my dining companion. Linda, Stella, Eva even Croydon Kate - no conversationalist but fun, I hear - or Elle - she may be ' the body' but in my book she sure ain't 'the face' - would do, I thought. But that was before I realised the term 'supermodel' was elastic enough to include Caprice Bourret. The snooty mare showed me her back throughout all 5 courses. Listen love. I cast Naomi for her first ever catwalk (FACT!). Your composite card would have been an instant 'recycle.'