MNKY HSE, Mayfair

For a taste of the Mayfair lifestyle at a fraction of the cost, book a space in the bar in the bowels of MNKY HSE (BYO vowels) -  a ‘new breed of dining experience’ that heroes modern Latin American cuisine. Set to a FNKY MNKY soundtrack that gets a lot lot louder as the evening progresses, this  glossy gaff recalls the sort of early Noughties NYC nightspot Naomi Campbell, trailing paparazzi in her wake, might have plagued while the Sex and the City ladies, mainlining martinis, held a wake for yet another failed relationship. Dress as Naomi or Carrie's mucker Samantha's MUCH younger sisters; MNKY HSE is a catwalk already strutted by 'porn heiress' India Rose James; Pips Taylor; Weegee wailer Talia Storm; Kyle De Vole (Rita Ora's stylist, apparently); Henry Conway (a party fixture dubbed "Mince Charming" by a sometime mate of mine) and male mannequin Harvey Newton-Hadyon - the sort of fluttery young things drawn, as moths to a Vapona Strip, to Mayfair boîtes such as this. Model muddles and mixes on a South of the Border tip include a coffee martini - made, Jalisco-style, with Jaral de Berrio Mezcal, mole bitters, dark chocolate and rose dust - and a fine £13 passion fruit spume-layered Negroni manqué that calls for Mezcal Gin Joven. Ron Millonario XO Reserva Especial fix, MNKY Business (top left) - a subtle, smoky rum old fashioned - is flamboyantly produced from a glass flask shrouded in mist and much hot air from its maker about “the concept.” Another signature is called Taking The Pisco: cue Ace of Spades Gold Brut Champagne, for those (rappers, footballers, hedgies, pretentious pricks) happy to drop £850 a bottle or £1,450 on a magnum of bling-bauble bubbles. For those with more sense than money, house (Argentine) white is yours for more modest £26. Baltic blondes with Rylan Clark glow-in-the-dark teeth -  veneereal disease is sweeping London - will be relieved: tasty, teeny taco-ettes and fiddly fishy bites won’t interfere with the contours of a body-con black dress... but they may batter a bloke's Barclaycard. 

10 Dover Street W1S 4LQ 3870 4880 www.mnky-hse.com

Compagnie Des Vins Surnaturels, Covent Garden

When I worked in the fashion biz - long before 'designer' became a dirty word - faddy colleagues at Ab Fab PR guru Lynne Franks' office on Long Acre would hit Neal's Yard for whatever Vogue decreed was the on-trend lunch du jour. Macrobiotic mung bean curry and organic spirulina and shark sperm smoothies were not my bag: back when my liver was in its still-pink prime, lunch was invariably liquid, strong and Tanqueray flavoured. Well, if you faced long afternoon photo shoots blowing smoke up the scrawny arses of Naomi, Elle and Linda wannabes with the IQ of one alfalfa sprout between them, you'd mainline martinis at noon too. I've avoided Neal's Yard ever since - immune to its Goopy Gwynnie faux hippy appeal. The arrival of Compagnie des Vins Surnaturels could reverse that aversion. "Vins surnaturels?" I'll leave aside my Toulousain pal's diatribe about the term - dismissed by the no-taureau Gascon as 'un meaningless marketing mot' , a conceit dreamt up by pretentious Parisian coqs. If there's one thing that drives me nuts about my French chums, it's their endless après-diner polemic about matters that matter not a jot to me. So, moving swiftly along....smartly kitted out in regulation Elle Decoration St Germain chic, this dishy duplex (surnaturel/ fine) wine bar is the latest Left Bank import from l'équipe that brought you hip late-night Chinatown noodle, Experimental Cocktail Club. Experimentation does not come cheap here: we're talking Puligny-Montrachet not Piat d'Or budgets, mes amis. Fortunately, sommelier Julia Oudill’s savvy pairings - e.g. crispy peppery bébé squid with a stellar Furmint Tokaji (£63), or a sublime St. Joseph (£58) with quail egg and truffled ham ‘posh’ croque - preclude expensive mistakes. Piedmont ice cider with nicely ripe'n'whiffy Époisses is an inspired match, while crumbly Comté and a 2006 Arbois vin jaune en Spois - think Alpine sherry - from the Jura scores top marks from tonight's foodie-drinkie jury.
I spend much of my working hours necking cocktails (yeh, life's a bitch) but if my own moolah is to be parted with, I invariably prefer a bottle of best Bourgogne, Barolo or Bordeaux. As Compagnie des Vins Surnaturels' gorge' list of global grapeage is guaranteed to give any oenophile a Beauner, it ain't milkshakes that'll bring this boy back to the Yard.

8 - 10 Neal’s Yard WC2H 9DP 7734 7737 http://www.cvssevendials.com

Upstairs At Nancy's, Shoreditch

En route to tonight's Plan A (see following review), I squeeze in the Press launch of this new wee upstairs hang-out, away from the fray, at the packed Crown and Shuttle - a low rent strip joint turned groovy distressed pub - below (see http://tinyurl.com/bn9k3aj ). A room that would, by oily London estate agent standards, constitute 'a generous space for entertaining' (or in my native Edinburgh New Town, 'a walk-in wardrobe) has been got up like a film set. Full-scale shopfronts - their window displays packed with retro wares - describe a Spitalfields square circa Poirot. Theres even a Victorian gas lamp under which to loiter, should the local tart wish to spotlight her display rack. Cute, but I am reminded of a similar set-up I've seen before -  a cod-Oirish village square, deep in the bowels of Waxy O'Connor's in W1 (Not so cute). A tiny candlelit bar dispenses London gins and craft beers (Partizan, Redchurch and Five Points), wine from the barrel, and a couple of cocktails such as Nancy's signature - La Penca mezcal, Kamm and Sons and Sacred vermouth (£8). With food from downstairs' kitchens available, this would make a great party space for up to 30. (Private hire is available) I forget to ask who Nancy is but presently I spot, and join, some familiar faces outside the village apothecary. The conversation turns to Naomi Campbell's witchy barbs on The Face; Madonna hits; David Beckham's pants; Tess Daly's Strictly awful frocks; Selfridges' discount cards; and moisturiser - as it inevitable does when you join a table of tweeting Nancy boys and their female admirers. 
226 Shoreditch High Street  E1 6PJ 7375 2905   www.upstairsatnancys.co.uk

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.'

4 Winsley Street W1W 8HF 7291 1480 www.libertineclublondon.com/