The City of Quebec, Marylebone

The Quebec first opened in the run-up to World War II. At the height of The Blitz (so, I'm reliably informed), "Hello sailor!" was a common greeting at this ancient queer beer bar, as one strand of London society cemented the Special Relationship with America - whose off-duty Marines and GIs had more to offer than chewing gum and silk stockings. Back in the day,  'gay' was an adjective restricted to describing the jaunty Jacqmar silk scarf Mrs. Miniver wore to jolly up her make-do-and-mend frock, fashioned from a pair of brown curtains. It looked like curtains too for The Quebec - threatened with a future as another faceless fast food joint - until owners Greene King stepped in and saved the old girl, splashing a six-figure sum on a make over that drags the Quebec's tired decor into the 21st Century (just).
 At a time when gay bars are going down faster than a fluffer on Sean Cody's porn star penis, it's a welcome reprieve for (Nelly) 'the elephant's graveyard' - as I've oft heard the place referred to on account of its core punters' seniority. Marvel, as mouthy slappers such as Lola Lasagne, Baga Chipz or Vanity Von Glow strut their stuff onstage. Still got it? Shake a leg to Dolly, Dusty, Donna and Madonna in the Quebec's downstairs disco, open until 3am at weekends. When I say 'shake a leg', I'm reminded of an evening - circa Kylie, Mel and Kim - when a forlorn Glaswegian pal asked me to escort him there. That's 'escort' as in chaperone; I don't accept Amex. Recently dumped (again), he was out on a bender, hoping to be under one before the night was through. A crinkly screamer hobbled over to chat up chuckee chum who, on a there-but-for-the- grace-of-God basis, decided to humour the poor thing. Motioning downwards, the gummy old queen piped up with “My strap-on is giving me gip. You won't mind if I take it off?” ...and duly does, propping  his prosthetic lower left limb up against our table. Chuckee (mortified): “Nae mair drink for you, hen! You’re fuckin' legless." By the time I took my leave of them, they looked mighty cosy but, to this day, Chuckee swears he did not fuck Legless. 
At the new old Quebec, butch it up with draught TT Landlord or try dolly cocktails shaken by 'Delicious Dave'' (pictured, below) - cheap by West End standards (the drinks, not Dave!)
 "You'll love the Dainty Damsel" (a Sipsmith damson vodka Bellini) maintains a bright-eyed staffer, mistaking me for TOWIE's Bobby Norris or Gok Wan ("Liberace, more like!" - Editor). She also reckons I'll like the "really good Prosecco." At £48 quid a pop, I should hope so. "Show me!" I say. She points to a bottle of Bollinger. OMG! Vada the dizzy polone! That's polari, by the way. "Polari?" you say. Ask Biggins, Barrymore, a retired Romford riah zhoosher, or some other gnarly ol' Nancy!

12 Old Quebec Street W1H 7AF  www.facebook.com/CityOfQuebec

Photo: Greene King / Louise Jolley

The Cocktail Trading Co. Development Bar and Table, Soho

The name is a mouthful. So too, in a tastier way, this new dive's dandy drinks. Crammed to capacity, just days after opening - "That's because they've got a great PR" quips the bar's star media massager, Anne Kapranos - tonight, the basement's 50-strong crowd of self-evidently satisfied soaks does not include Ed Burstell, MD of Liberty across the street. Phew! The main turn in Channel 4's highly watchable fly-on-the-wall TV series/ extended advertisement for the creaky old pile may be an affable sort, but the spindly American Mister Ed (the Talking Clothes Horse) gives me the pure heebie-jeebies. A modern-day Childcatcher, camp and slightly creepy in black duds by Dior, he loomed large in a particularly disturbing nightmare I once had that also involved Gok Wan and Mary Portas, and saw me wake up, gasping, convinced I was being strangled by a Paisley-print silk scarf. (Make of this what you will, Dr. Freud!) Cocktail Trading Co, on the other hand, is a discerning drinker's wet dream. Run as an 'ethical co-operative' by a trio of joshing patter merchants - friendly faces you'll likely recognise from London Cocktail Club and Steam and Rye is likely to succeed where others such as its immediate predecessor - the conceited 'no-brands' concept that was "And Co" - failed. Why? Because the raffish, retro wood-panelled pit is "Ding Dong" as Leslie Phillips would put it and £8 is a steal for real-deal drinks such as my deftly dispatched boulevardier or the solid gold sazerac that follows it. Fresh ingredients and attention to detail are part of the package. And while I'm more likely to snog not-half-as-sharp-as-she-thinks, oboxious ogre in a Worzel Gummidge wig, Katie Hopkins, than lock lips with jokey ideas such as Tu-Whit-Tu-Whoo-Woo - vodka, lemon, peach, sage, cranberry and prosecco served, tiki-style, in a red owl mug coiffed with pink candy floss - if wacky is your bag, it's done here with wit, style and substance. No more so, than in the guise of a Jim Beam, yuzu, ginger, plum and matcha tea Shanghai sour (pictured). Sipped through straws disguised as chopsticks, served in a waxed noodle container, garnished with a mound of the sort of Chinese chow Nancy Lam would wham bam your way, it's doable as well as dippy. Dippy, Cocktail Trading Co's sussed owners are decidedly not but you'd be daft to miss a production that will hopefully outrun Cats, Lord Wibbly-Wobbly's steaming pile of caterwauling crap that is, unfathomably, still pulling them in by the charabanc-load at The Palladium next door.

22 Great Marlborough Street W1F 7HG 7427 6097  www.thecocktailtradingco.com/

Bourne & Hollingsworth Buildings, Clerkenwell

Two Fitzrovia bars to the good, the owners of Bourne & Hollingsworth and Reverend J.Simpson have added a bigger, more ambitious, third off Exmouth Market. Like Derry and Toms, and Swan and Edgar, Bourne and Hollingsworth was originally the name of one of London's many double-barrelled department stores that in the latter's case, was on its last legs around the same period as this bar's mismatched skip-refugee furniture was fashionable: the mid-1970s. BHB is done out like the sort of Surrey wine bar one of that decade's great TV fixtures might have hung out in with her Rotary Club cronies, sipping Cherry Heering and sneering about a neighbour's ghastly common baby blue Ford Capri. That's no bad thing: The Good Life's Margo Leadbetter's style is bang on the current fashion zeitgeist. There's much else to like here; not least a handsome sit-up, cocktail bar, a chintzy Homebase pot plant-heavy conservatory/ dining area and floorboards painted light-bouncing white, always flattering to the sort of London bar flies whose complexions are a touch Gak Wan. The opening party cocktails we are served are fair-to-girly: port flower stinger; cider rose (apple and blackberry shrub stirred with cider brandy, charged with prosecco). Blokier stuff to try next time - for, unlike some recent lame launches I've attended, there will be a next time -  includes rum and plum (Santa Theresa 1796, prune vermouth and bitters). A posh pubby menu that has mint crusted cannon of lamb with ratatouille (not exactly 1970s pricing at £20), and Caribbean pork belly, sweet potato puree and plantain beignets bears investigation. The bar snacks we try are hit and miss: crispy bacon and potato maki rolls with horseradish cream strange, but strangely addictive; red bell pepper and thyme cake, whatever!; coronation chicken wrap with avocado relish the sort of outré buffet one-upmanship your aunt in Esher might have once served to a soundtrack of Demis Roussos.  
42 Northampton Road EC1R 0HU 3174 1156 www.bandhgroup.com/buildings/