Spiritland, King's Cross

Following an initial residency at Angela Hartnett’s Merchants Tavern, Paul Noble, Patrick Clayton-Malone and Dominic Lake take their music appreciation concept to the next level with this classy King’s Cross audio and record store/ listening lounge/ cafe/ bar/ chill-out. With the drop-dead cred' likes of Severino, Andy Weatherall, Patrick Forge, Ian Dewhirst and Jarvis Cocker playing vinyl on its peerless bespoke-built analogue system, Spiritland is manna to music lovers whose lugs and frontal lobes embrace all genres and eras. Food is overseen by Owen Kenworthy (Blueprint Cafe, ex-Brawn). Go early for morning coffee and pastries and NYC-London brunch staples followed by an all day menu that might typically offer chicken soup with matzo balls, salt beef or pesto caprese sandwich, aubergine parmigiana, a  daily pasta dish, salads, sausage roll, charcuterie and cheeses. Choose from three dozen wines from £25 (Southern Rhône red)  and Thornbridge Chiron on tap among other local and imported craft beers. £10 cocktails include Sakamoto Sorbet (Brooklyn Gin, limoncello, basil and Belsazar white vermouth) and Deez Nuts, a Ron Abuelo 7, smoked rosemary, toasted pecan and bitter chocolate jazzy old fashioned to accompany Ella, Billie, Dinah and the Blue Note boys.

Granary Square, 9 - 10 Stable Street N1C 4AB spiritland.com 

Megaro Bar, King's Cross

After a shortish stint as Karpo, this King's Cross cocktail lounge has been rebranded Megaro bar, after the hotel whose basement it occupies. To mark the name change, it's had a makeover too; the new conceit, a photographer's dark room circa early Kodakchrome. Split into two areas, a rear lounge, lit deep red (what else?), has leather banquette, old plush, flip-down cinema seats and hard, resin-coated cross sections of some kind of tree stump - quite the most uncomfortable stump - short of being impaled in some very dark amputee porn video (a lucrative niche market, I'm told). We move to a second room whose only uncomfortable feature is a too-busy colour portrait gallery of local faces and customers; like stock shots shortlisted for a building society’s new touchy-feely brochure, where prints by Bailey, Horst or Arbus would work better.  I should, at this point, fess up to the fact that the good people at Megaro are running a free tab for me and three muckers. I can honestly say that elegant signature cocktails such as Land of Grace (Diplomatico Reserva, white port and clover honey), Beefeater-based Lavender Hill Mob fizz, and a pisco and pear daisy would have been almost as enjoyable had I been paying for them out of my own pocket. Of course, if I had a spare £500 - for that's the damage - I'd have spent it on summat less friv; like the 25% deposit on the dental implant currently under construction after a rogue Brazil nut picked a fight with a battle-weary molar in my mush. Off-menu curveballs - a request for a Brooklyn - are competently fielded, while snacks (the freebie wasn't entirely blown on booze) are hit and miss. Watermelon lemon olive and feta sashimi-style, and foie gras parfait both get the thumbs-up, but beef carpaccio is doused in too salty soy, and wilted broccoli spears with hollandaise are all too literally limp. Fake photographer's dark room Megaro could develop a fashionable following, given the right exposure: I worry its location, adrift of the main King's Cross buzz, could see it edited out of the picture. This would be a pity.

Belgrove Street WC1H 8AB 7843 2222 http://www.megarobar.co.uk/ 

Simmons, King's Cross

It has been a while since I last hung out here, but where else to go when Drink Shop and Dance closes? (http://tinyurl.com/kffgxhl ) Recently refurbished, here's a cross between a Beckenham bungalow's front parlour circa Chirpy Chirpy Cheep Cheep - dig the coal flame effect brass fire -  and a set for a CBeebies show decorated courtesy of Steptoe and Son’s yard. Simmons opens around 4 pm when cheap deals spell danger as a happy hour that actually runs for 300 minutes kicks in. Served in car boot booty (?) - china tea cups at £6.50, or in teapots to share (from £15) - not-half-bad cocktails are a large part of this cheeky charmer’s appeal. Fire into French Martini, Long Island Iced Tea, White Russian or Jamble (gin, Chambord, raspberry jam and cranberry juice). By 2.30 am on weekends, it's jammed and jumping as DJs spin mashed-up tracks to the similarly mashed-upand mad-for-it  at what feels like an impromptu house party after the pub closes, held in someone's nan's front parlour while the old dear - ignorance is bliss - is in the hozzie having a hip replacement. Just don't break any of her kitsch ornaments. OK? And, after last week's shenanigans at Simmons, I'd say King's Cross to Notting Hill at around 4am must be the best value you can get for £1.40 in London...if you pick the right night bus (he says, cryptically).

32 Caledonian Rd, N1 7278 5851 www.simmonsbar.co.uk 

Tweaked from my review at www.squaremeal.co.uk

The Carriage Bar at The Grain Store, King's Cross

Set in a former Victorian warehouse where "acieeeed!" warehouse parties were once the thing, the arrival of Bruno Loubet's Grain Store underscores the hood's relentless upward trajectory. From the haunt of shady old pimps and leathery prozzies, to Proenza Schouler bags and Prada shades drawn to Bruno's artfully arranged modern veggie mouthfuls on pristine white plates; that's King's Cross 2013. With dancing fountains outside, and an over-designed tricksy interior that is somewhere between a (very big branch) of Carluccio's and a Jamie's Italian speaking with a Gallic accent, The Grain Store is pure theatre. So too, the star of the show's supporting cast: a good-looking/quirky chorus line in jaunty neckerchiefs à la Pirates of Penzance;  a quaint German receptionist/ MC who is Joel Grey in Cabaret, the remake; a colourful camp maître d' who acts like he'll presently do a razzle dazzle 'em soft-shoe shuffle on the bar top; and the Carriage Bar's philosophical, phlegmatic Galician manager who rightly belongs in an old Buñuel film. As with some of that director's work, I'm not quite sure what to make of drinks directed by Loubet's consultant shaker, Tony Conigliaro. Several ideas have been designed with a specific dish in mind. Partnering courgette broad bean and prawn falafel, for example, is a singular sinus-tingling vodka mustard martini a must, or a must to avoid as Herman's Hermits sang it? I initially like it. After swig two, I'm less sure. As the novelty wears off, I grow more inclined towards my date's take:  "Ugh! Like swigging Colman's." Another sip and I'm in love again. Blowing hot and cold (literally in this case) about people is my default position. Cocktails? Rarely. I am, however, decidedly down with Tone's Beefeater ‘green’ martini. But pumpkin and maple syrup Bellini? Smoked paprika white wine? Butter and hay Champagne? Silver tip tea with a hint of cassis, meanwhile, comes on like the sort of mouthwash you'd be given at the dentist's were goody gum drops Gywnnie Paltrow minsitering to your molars. Presently, the penny drops. Could Bruno's brief have stipulated devising drinks so leftfield, a punter needs to try them several times over in order to form an opinion? If so, you've sure succeeded, Signor Conigliaro.

The Grain Store, Granary Square, 1-3 Stable Street N1C 4AB http://www.grainstore.com

 

GNH Bar, King's Cross

Located in Cubitt’s elegant Victorian crescent, once grand, The Great Northern Hotel at King's Cross station had fallen on hard times when I first visited it aeons ago. My godmother had arranged to meet me there after I'd come off the Flying Scotsman from Edinburgh. A former Bluebell Girl, she wafted in, fashionably late, in a cloud of Sobranie smoke and Mitsouko, glamourous as ever in a vintage topaz shantung silk swing-back coat and colour-matched kid kitten heels. All Kim Novak chic, she looked seriously out of place in the terminally depressed, shabby hotel lounge. Over afternoon tea - all chipped cups, sad curled up sulphuric egg and salad cream sandwiches and Elastoplast pink stale fondant fancies nobody could remotely fancy - she reminisced how the place had been an elegant spot for brandy blazers with boyfriends back in her glamourous high-kicking prime. Fast forward to 2013, I'm invited back for the Great Northern's re-launch. After a £40 million refurbishment, is it really once again a hotel fit for a (similarly regenerated) major London railway terminus? Its £300+ per night rooms sure look smart; there's a handsome brasserie, Plum + Spilt Milk, and, at street level, a new lounge that reckons itself  ‘a railway bar without rival in Europe.’ Ah! Somebody send GNH's marketing bods an InterEurope Railcard! Compared to Alter Wartesaal at Cologne's main station, say, or all spell-binding gilded Belle Époque opulence, Le Train Bleu at Paris's Gare De Lyon - to name but two railway grandees that might contest their hubristic claim - faux Art deco, mirrored ceilings, glitzy glass chandeliers and twee drinks presentation feels slightly small town and passé - an impression not helped by (sweet)  staff in black cling mini-dresses looking like the girls backing  Robert Palmer in his iconic Addicted To Love video, and a housey soundtrack my style arbiter date describes as 'like the wrong bit of Ibiza... in 2003.' Cocktails such as Portobello gin Northern Sour, and Woodford Reserve cardamom and smoked pineapple stir, 1854, are fair enough at £9, but an off-menu request for something mezcal-based elicits 'what's mezcal?' in reply from one friendly amateur barman. As for the bar food, let's hope Mark Sargeant - drafted in to oversee it, I'm told - had no hand in lame launch night canapes. If you're King's Cross bound, drop in: anything is preferable to the catering on East Coast's trains but if you're looking for a London railway bar without rival, try the gorgeous Gilbert Scott at St. Pancras.

King’s Cross N1C 4TB 3388 0800 http://gnhlondon.com/ 

Vestal Voyages, King's Cross

"Fancy a cruise around King's Cross?' asks nice PR lady. Cruising for what, I wonder? Dodgy weed? Skunk? Smack? A five-bob-a-nob-job aff some gummy auld granny? An accountant from PricewaterhouseCoopers, pretending to be a scally, on-the-pull at Central Station, in full footie kit - one of that establishment's special interest nights, Im told? Negative. It transpires I am invited on the maiden voyage of 50ft Gdansk-built, Liverpool stern, classic canal cruiser, Disco Volante. The imaginatively refurbished craft is owner/ captain/ ex-Storm model turned purveyor of premium Polish potato vodka, William Borrell's pride and joy/ big boy toy. All summer long, twice daily (four times at weekends), you and up to nine others can also join William and his cool and slightly kooky crew in the shadow of St. Pancras International for Vestal Voyages - a Regent's Canal booze cruise that's a lot more entertaining than watching a pair of gannets from Thanet on a day-trip to Calais trying to cram more lager than Lidl will shift in a month into the back of an old Ford Focus. Glasses charged with Nautical Nonsense - one of various  themed 'tails that also include dangerously guzzlable vodka, white wine and green tea-based breezer, Sips Ahoy - we cast off. £8 each, two ship-shape cocktails are included in the £25pp cost of a 90-minute trip along what I'm assured is one of the more picturesque sections of Regent's Canal. Although, given the amount of crap floating in the water - chucked in by the kind of slacker that will happily donate to Friends of the Earth - I'll not bother with the grittier stretches, thank you, Captain William. It's all great fun and the sense of canal-life camaraderie is palpable. Ducks swim up to say hello, towpath strollers wave, and one grumpy dude on a bike shouts out "middle-class wankers!" Our floating gin palace, or vodka palace to be precise - although other spirits are available -  progresses serenely towards a long, long tunnel ahead. This is my favourite part of the trip. Clammy; claustrophobic; silent; Stygian: it's fabulously eery. Ere long, a golden light at the tunnel's end can be glimpsed. "This is what dying must feel like" muses one jolly Roger aboard. As we emerge into a sun-dappled, bucolic, watery idyll as imagined by Raoul Dufy, I can see what he means. Who knew the arse end of Islington could be heaven on earth?

Granary Square, Camley Street NC 4AA bookings 07941 117 553 www.facebook.com/VestalVaults?fref=ts

The Parcel Yard, King's Cross

The architects of King’s Cross station have made a great job of retaining its old character while updating it for today’s travellers' needs. This is particularly evident at The Parcel Yard, a former goods depot whose listed atrium and glass ceiling have been incorporated into a space handsomely done out in salvaged woods, brick, glazed tiles, battered furniture and railway memorabilia. The place would still look familiar to the guard on the Flying Scotsman to Edinburgh Waverley circa the young Winston Churchill. Well-kept draught ales such as Discovery are by owners Fuller’s (and guests). The Chiswick brewer also does decent vino from under £4 a glass (for South African merlot) plus Picpoul de Pinet, reasonable at £17.50 a bottle.  Said to be Britain’s biggest railway station pub, I’d rather breakfast here on bacon butties (£3.95), duck eggs and soldiers or kedgeree and dine on potted shrimp, roast artichoke tart, grilled plaice samphire and cockle and mussel dressing followed by Cambridge burnt cream or fruit crumble with golden syrup than entrust myself to East Coast Mainline’s caterers - even if brown Windsor soup is a Brief Encounter buffet staple too far.    

King’s Cross Station N1C 4AH  7713 7258 www.ParcelYard.co.uk

For more reviews like this see www.squaremeal.co.uk

VOC, King's Cross

The initials VOC stand for The Dutch East India Company in the native tongue of those former sea traders. It’s to their times and those Oriental climes - with a little help from the crew of the good ship Purl in Marylebone - that VOC, a new punch house in King’s Cross, looks for inspiration for its recherché rinses. Small is beautiful, they say; and the diminutive VOC is certainly that. A looker too - judging by the beatific smile on the face of coquettish Filipino star waitress, Mary, whenever she contemplates him - is VOC’s Italian mix-maestro, piccolo Alex Palumbo. Like Mary, I’m similarly smitten; at least, on a professional level. Passionate about his craft, Alex bids us taste his home-made bitters, infused rums, barrel-aged grogs and arcane flavourings retrieved via a ladder that leans precariously against a lofty back bar. Unaware he’s in the presence of the drinks industry’s equivalent of the Pope (my chum), and a serial Sazerac sponge (that’ll be me), his enthusiasm is not put on for PR effect. From a deadly arsenal, he unleashes killer Bergamot Grog (£9), New Orleans classic, Vieux Carré, and the liquorice-y Brandy Cocktail served in a chalice. A tenebrous tobacco-tone parlour, VOC could be the background to a Dutch old master’s portrait: thanks to Alex’s masterly mixology, expect VOC to be mobbed by discerning (Vermeer) kats ‘ere long. 

2 Varnishers Yard, Regent Quarter, N1 7713 8229

King's Cross Social Club, King's Cross

At recent arrival King’s Cross Social Club, my cocktail’s advertised base is substituted without explanation or apology. Four Roses is not Maker’s Mark. Sure, they’re both bourbon but if I’m paying for Paul Smith, I don’t want Reiss sneaked into the carrier bag when I'm not looking. As it is, the choice of spirit is academic; drowned in vermouth, my drink is less Perfect Manhattan more Hell’s Kitchen, as in one-time dodgy New York ‘hood as opposed to something stirred at rant-y Ramsay’s fair hand. It’s a waste of good bourbon, not to mention the better part of eight quid but what to expect of inexperienced staff that might be related to Fawlty Towers’s Manuel? Do I require ‘apple’ in a dry martini? What’s Spanish for ‘on what planet?’ The pub-cum-bar’s interior - all leather sofas and flea market swag - is pure Noughties design cliché. A flier promises Nu folk gigs and screenings of trash ‘masterpieces’ such as Death Race 2000 but tonight’s entertainment is a DJ whose playlist might have been cribbed from a student union jukebox. Franz Ferdinand and Groove Is In The Heart. Groove sure ain’t in the room, lees-than-Dee-lite-ful punters dismissed by the date as ‘the blah leading the bland.’ Toying with meze no worse than from a Harringay Turkish supermarket’s tins, we debate which superior King’s Cross social deserves our dollar.

2 Britannia St. WC1 7278 4252