Alpha Beta Bar, Finsbury

"SAS flight 1974 to Stockholm now boarding at (Moor)gate 1"

When he’s not tending at, and to, his other bars (White Lyan, Dandelyan, The Fount at Selfridges), esteemed champion of cerebral, experimental peculiars, Ryan Chetyawardana (aka “Mr. Lyan”), is likely to be found at the standalone bar at chef Anna Hansen’s Modern Pantry off Moorgate. Brightly lit, all Scandi-style blonde woods with pressed flora, pine cones and other forest-foraged finds masquerading as art, its peninsular bar’s stools the only seating, the room suggests a Nordic airport bar circa early ABBA. What Alpha Beta (the name sounds like one of the group’s songs but relates to the title of the building it inhabits) lacks in louche lounge lizard appeal, however, is compensated by Mr L’s high flying botanical-inspired fixes that harness spices and ingredients integral to Hansen’s cooking; the subtle kick of a dhansak masala minced veal-filled omelette a highlight of a menu of appealing, affordable bar snacks. Killer combos include mini brioche buns stacked with smoked mussel, crab and guacamole paired with Iranian Gimlet - both ideas flavoured with dried down Iranian lime;  and crab rarebit doughnut with squid ink and the same Urfa chilli salt used in homemade bitters that inform Hellfire, a sophisticated Wild Turkey bourbon old fashioned sweetened with honey. Twisted aperitivo hour classics - an Aperol spritz prepared with black moscato and hibiscus - and interesting hi-balls - Byrrh with San Pellegrino’s  bittersweet orange cola-esque soft, Chinotto, and Amer Picon mixed with Meantime Pale Ale, an Anglo take on the French farmer’s vieille école fave - are further reason to head tot Hansen and Lyan’s commendable collaboration.

at The Modern Pantry, 14 Finsbury Square  EC2A  1AH 3696 6965 www.themodernpantry.co.uk

one two two, Mayfair

(now)

Will new cocktail lounge, one two two, be overflowing with filles de joie, I wonder? For wasn't Le Chabanais - the name of the bistro above whose chef is Inaki Aizpitarte (or not, according to Twitter gossips a mere two weeks after I visit) - once  Paris's most infamous bordello? From his Pigalle garret, my ancient syphilitic artiste copain confirms it was...until spoilsport French politicians - many of whom had happily enthusiastically embraced its inmates - closed all 'maisons closes' in 1946, branding them cesspits of bourgeois degeneracy. Pre-War, Le Chab accommodated painters, poets, hommes d'affaires, vaudeville vedettes, gangsters, dandies, breast-fondling barons and c***-licking counts - not to mention the odd Hollywood star who dared to swing bi' (bonjour Marlene Dietrich!) Grainy photos reveal décor as outrageously baroque as the appetites of its roué regulars. Not so, one two two, a  ferociously chic, dark, Bauhaus-inspired bunker where streamlined Art Deco ousts frills and furbelows. Its handsome focal point is a priapic prow-like counter, its back bar's sleek metal shelves stacked with high-end hooch and classic French apéritifs Byrrh, Picon, Lillet, Dolin and Gentiane. Run by one of the restaurant's co-owners, Franck Audoux -  a concombre-cool, (or gratingly Gallic, depending on your take on cocky French coqs) beau gosse - the bar heroes retro rinses that reference recipes popularised by hot-shot bartenders of the 1920’s/ 30’s - e.g. Frank Meier, for over 25 years in charge at The Paris Ritz. Try Tunnel, a negroni made with No.3 gin and both French and Italian vermouths; pineapple-infused Mezan rum sour, Barbaresque; or La Vie En Rose - a tequila and cherry liqueur fix named after the Edith Piaf chanson, the angsty warbler whose grand'mère (like nine out of ten of her contemporaries, it seems) reportedly also ran a knocking shop. Here, £14.50 - a price that would get you a blow-job down a cold Calais alley - secures Bertie, a cider brandy and Bénédictine Champagne cocktail named after the future Edward VII who, as Prince of Wales, had a penchant for bathing in Champagne at Le Chab' owner Madame Kelly's tub, a fantastical vision in the form of a sphinx (pictured). As a teenager on the loose à Paris, some of my more educative soirées began over kirs royales paid for by kindly grandes horizontales, Brassaï-esque brasses off-duty in Montparnasse brasseries. Given the parade of high class hoops-for-hire (or 'celebrities' as some glossy mags euphemistically refer to some of their number) who feather their fannies at the appropriately named Mount Street's designer boutiques, I'd hoped to be in debauched good company tonight. Few in number, my fellow tipplers appear to be of upstanding moral character. One two two? Tasty 'tails, but tame if you're drawn to wanton women on the game.
 8 Mount Street, W1 7491 7078   http://www.lechabanaislondon.com/

(then)

Original Sin, Stoke Newington

Happiness Forgets regularly appears high on those ubiquitous year-end Best Bars lists. Quite right too! No arsey doorwhores. No narcissistic nobs punting molecular fanny. No cringeworthy concept (PR imagines "pre-Revolutionary Romanov luxe in Fabergé jewel brights infused with the decadent spirit of Studio 54" while I imagine Boney M tribute band in traj tin-foil outfits murders Ra-Ra-Rasputin at a Hornchurch hen night. No Cristal-fuelled Kanye and Kim klones. No £25-plus anodyne Asian share boards as flogged for a quid -with free Peter Andre CD - at Iceland. No! Just delightful down-played decor and damn fine drinks. I too am all Happiness to be at owners Alastair Burgess and Andy Bird's Hoxton Square dive whenever I'm not feigning interest in launch night bourbon and butterscotch slush puppies at some Shepherd's Bush shithole (you know who you are!) or the likes. In the quiet downtime of the first week of 2015, I make it to Burgess's Christmas present to London nightlife; his second sexy saloon, a lo-fi linear cellar that has me from hello. Butch brick and wood panelling, convivial booths, perch-perfect bar stools and a brown baize pool table at which to unleash your inner Eddie Felsen (pictured) sett the scene for spot-on fixes that look to old school (vieille école?) tipples for inspiration. Served by enthusiastic, attitude-free, all-female bar staff, classic French red wine-based apéritif Byrrh (plus Kamm and Sons and aquavit) informs Penfold Sour, while Belle Époque Parisian favourite Suze (gentian root, its bittersweet base), white rye and Lillet blanc makes for a top-notch tart Diamond Manhattan. Original Sin could easily be the downfall of this man. My only beef? Bleary-eyed on a night bus, it's a long schlep back to my K + C crib from the cold, windswept steppes of Siberia... aka Stoke Newington. Time to dig out the fur and ring Foxtons!
129 Stoke Newington High Street N16 0PH http://www.originalsin.bar