Fox Bar, Brixton

This new Brixton booze bunker is in Piano House, a creative hub in a converted Victorian warehouse. I remember this dive from my one previous visit when it was Substation South, owned by Erik Yu (Opium/ Burlock/ 68 and Boston). With my fashion show producers hat on, I'd hired its DJ, Martin Confusion, to develop a trip-hop soundtrack for a client - Katharine Hamnett, if my memory serves me well. What I do distinctly remember was rocking up at the club to discuss ideas, only to find his gig was a raunchy gay uniform night. Not much was achieved: well, you try concentrating, surrounded by 'squaddies' in the noddy, hard at it on manoeuvres that are far from Geneva conventional! Having been totally transformed (and doused in bleach, I trust), the sometime sex-pit now hosts Soho House’s latest whizz; a drinking den inspired by the old taverns of Chicago, in which city the same group’s original Fox Bar is based on traditional English taverns, I'm told. Confused? Here’s the 411. Fox Bar sits in a narrow arch next door to a branch of Soho House’s Chicken Shop roll-out. There’s barely room for thirty souls in what feels like a sanitised take on the sort of joint Frankie Machine - the fly by night hero of Chicago novelist Nelson Algren’s The Man with the Golden Arm - might have drunk at with his dissolute buds before graduating to injecting his veins with something a little stronger than Banana Penicillin, one of the drinks on a list worked up by Soho House’s global creative bar manager, Tom Kerr. Other classy £8 fixes (pun intended) that might have been less detrimental to Frankie’s health than his class A intake include Old Pal (a Rittenhouse rye Negroni), Southside Collins, Boulevardier and Nitro (espresso) Martini, the latter two on tap. Chuck in chicken bits and craft beers; Brixton’s baddest will be quickly hooked.

Piano House, 9 Brighton Terrace SW9 8DJ Facebook Fox-Bar-Brixton

Burlock, Marylebone

This new basement rum room -previously naff nightspot Noir -  across the street from Selfridges back door was set to be called The Plantation. But that was before pressure groups piped up: "Commemorate places where slaves suffered? How very dare Yu? That's 'Yu' as in Eric, the bar's personable egalitarian owner whose other joints include inscrutable Chinatown den, Opium, and 68 and Boston on Greek Street. In our prescriptive PC world, must we now also boycott Plantation rum? for that's the base for Burlock’s creamy, white, minty Grasshopper, one of various cracking Caribbean and Creole classic cocktails whose names are - purely by coincidence rather than by some dark design, I wager - equally controversial. Take 'Rum-Ember' The Maine; a Mezan XO rum twist on the 1930s whiskey classic whose unbastardised title references the sinking of a ship, the USS Maine, that proved to be the flashpoint for the Spanish-American War in which thousands perished. Or Canchanchara, a white rum antecedent of 20s gin job Bee’s Knees, a drink invented to fortify locals throughout Cuba's Ten Year War with Spain. Whatever! In Yu's darkened 30s Havana parlour whose decor was presumably bought on E-Bay from Fidel Castro’s granny, lock, stock and ahem, 'plantation' shutters (as flogged in the Mail on Sunday magazine, so utterly PC clearly) punters, oblivious to such PC considerations, dive in to fishbowls and jiggle to fat funky beats played by DJs who will doubtless risk having that po-faced Dame, Chami Chakrabarti, and pontificating left-wing puffball Diane Abbott down on them like a ton of bricks if they so much as reach for a track by 70s soul brothers, Slave.

31 Duke Street W1U 1LG 7935 3303 www.burlock.co.uk

Peony, Chinatown

As a smoker, I vowed I'd give up when Marlboro Lites hit a fiver per pack. They soon did and I quit; although that was less down to price, all to Allen Carr...as in fag-aversion therapy clinic. Any aversion to the TV fag of that ilk is easily addressed: zap Chatty Man with your remote! I do. Similarly, I've vowed to give up cocktails when the benchmark for a boulevardier hits £20. Based on prices at Peony, a brand new space at  dimly lit pseudo-1930s-Shanghai den of debauchery, Opium, my drinking days are nigh over. Optional 12.5% gratuity included, prices zap from £15+ to a ceiling-busting £20.25 for Dragon Bite (El Dorado 5 rum, Benedictine, Xilli liqueur, lime, papaya and coriander). Yes, I have been known to shell out as much at Artesian or other starry lounges now and then, but all cheap 'n' cheerful chinoiserie, Peony ain't exactly The Connaught. Furthermore, at haute hotels, exotic snackage is often included in the price and smiling doormen invariably greet you as a long-lost friend. Tonight, despite coming armed with a reservation, I'm left outside, shivering in a biting wet wind for a full ten minutes while an impassive, impassable greeter attempts, FBI security-stylee, to communicate my presence to a front-of-house that's presumably pre-occupied, tending to other guests (all two of them, it transpires, when I do make it upstairs). The new inscrutable sepia tone saloon (its view, the sort of alley behind whose rubbish bins a vengeful triad member would carve a Shanghai smile into your boat race) is the domain of Rasa Gaidelyte, an enthusiastic Lithuanian blonde whose concise East-meets-West list is a work in progress. Served in patterned teapots, punches include a Chivas 12 whisky and green tea hot toddy - good with dim sum, seafood or vegetable platters from £15. Rasa's signature rinses include Mexican in China (Herradura tequila, Xilli pepper and maraschino liqueurs, grapefruit juice and lime) and a lemongrass-smoked Sazerac presented with goji berries and, wrapped in an exotic leaf, a gold coin for good luck. At this rate, a great deal of good fortune - i.e six numbers on tomorrow's Lotto - is required if this cookie is continue to afford to drink at London's more expensive lounges.

15 -16 Gerrard Street W1D 6JE www.peonychinatown.com

LONDON 2012: GOLD BARS

BAR OF THE YEAR:
QuiQuiRiQui http://tinyurl.com/8g4vbpm
London does this kind of bar best (and yes, I know one of its owners is Scandinavian). Fabulous freaks in a stripped-back, trippy Tarantino-esque Mexican porno basement beneath a kebab shop; Tom Jones on the jukebox; messy early morning mash-ups on rare weapon of mass destruction grade super-premium mezcal =  no hangover? Bring it on!

Favourite new uptown girl: 
The Luggage Room http://tinyurl.com/cg9nfxo
You'll need the cash equivalent of a pile of LVs (as in Luncheon Vouchers; ask your granny) to get steaming at this luxury LV (Louis Vuitton) walk-in steamer trunk: quality never comes cheap.

The trend that refuses to die: 
Speakeasies.
But these clandestine cuties are more than forgiven
Evans and Peel: http://tinyurl.com/auj63pm  Underdog: http://tinyurl.com/b3pur7m  Flat P: http://tinyurl.com/cy8uwzo

Dishiest Dalston dive: 
Ruby (don't take your love to town) http://tinyurl.com/ajcubkd

Biggest anti-climax: 

Opium (should have guessed: never liked Yves' perfume much either) http://tinyurl.com/ce2srmq

Hugest erection of the year: 
The Heron Tower, home to Sushisamba and its 'OMG!' (said the gobsmacky girl standing next to me) views of Lilliputian London below http://tinyurl.com/8ecefy5

Worst-dressed crowd of the year: 
Loadsamoney lads are not-so-City-slickers after ten too many 'tails. Yep, it's Sushisamba again.

The if-it's-good-enough-for-Michael-Fassbinder pub of the year award:

The Sebright Arms http://tinyurl.com/agwadbn

Gay shame of the year: 
Blitz http://tinyurl.com/anxn2oy

Wow... or wank? Decide for yourself: 
And Co http://tinyurl.com/9phzbjm

Most unlikely (anthropological) fun night out:
Bodo's Schloss http://tinyurl.com/a8y8wek

Most memorable cocktail:
If I liked it, I ordered ten - ergo, I can't remember it...or anything, come to that, until the ambulance showed up. Pretty much everything on the Gorgeous boys' menu at St James floated my boat. This much, I do remember. http://tinyurl.com/ac23j23

Most asked question of the year:
 'What's your favourite bar?' If I really must spend my own money, let it be at
Happiness Forgets  http://tinyurl.com/ak37xfs

Enough already: 
cocktails and burger/hotdog joint overkill; faffy molecular mixology; bubble tea; scotch eggs; door whores with more attitude than at Studio 54'- despite standing guard over a not-all-that Soho sweat-BOX; pop-ups - all pooped out now; charcuterie share platters; palate-cleanser flavoured water; cocktail lists that are a longer read than Doctor Zhivago; elderflower anything; who-cares Foursquare; edible gold flake; shampagne cocktails: prosecco ain't Pommery;  Aperol spritz; Hendrick's gin; twee, tweedy Chap Olympiad types; pork scratchings -  the ultimate dental damn!

Opium, Chinatown

Eric Yu (Punk, The Social, Salvador and Amanda) and drinks industry guru Dré Masso's joint new cocktail joint/ dim sum parlour, Opium, invites comparison with that other talked-up late-night Chinatown noodle,The Experimental Cocktail Club. Both bars inhabit the upper floors of creaky old townhouses, their unmarked doors designed to foil all but those in the loop. Although it's possible to simply rock up at either, advance reservations are a better bet; while another trait shared by both bars, is pricing as steep as the staircases that lead to them - an ascent perfumed by joss sticks as cloying as YSL's Opium at Opium. The rarified cocktails at ECC are arguably worth their 'ouch!' cost but my date, a bar world bigwig, is agog at Opium's ambitiously priced menu.  My first choice, gin and blood orange cooler Laughing Buddha, is a fine sundowner, and attractively garnished too; even if with Bombay Sapphire sold at £21 a litre at the end of my street as its base, Buddha should be laughing all the way to the bank. My date is not so lucky with Kung Fu Whizz. Served in a prosaic Chinese teacup, he's not keen on its mix of flat-ish Champagne, parsnip puree, black malt vinegar and honey, claiming it has all the appeal of the old Chinese Commie Party Chairman's Maoth-rinse. I try it. Bleurgh! The last time I tasted anything this peculiar, didn't I come round, dazed, in a Bucharest gutter, minus both my kidneys? For this liquid experiment, dispensed from Opium's apothecary, a Hong Kong Heston-style lab complete with chef/ mixologist's table, you'll pay around £15 - amateurish service from a sweet French chap who mightn't cut la moutarde chez ECC - included. While ECC favours Rive Gauche boho chic, the decor in the section of the sprawling pile we are shown to suggests a 1930s drug-fug knocking shop crossed with the waiting room of the Kowloon clap clinic you'd subsequently need to attend. That's not necessarily an unflattering comparison; you'll meet all sorts of lovely, interesting people (albeit possibly, temporarily, off-limits if you're in the mood for romance) at your local STD lounge. As for Opium's lounges,  I rather like this funky Shanghai shonkytonk's various quaint charms - viz its surreal loo experience (and, no; I'm not telling). Steaming, plump, reasonably priced at around £7 for four, dim sum presently appear - delivered, according to Frenchy (and sundry media), via dumb waiter from Dumplings Legend directly below. Ho Lee Fook! Would that be Dumplings Legend as featured in yesterday's Evening Standard? I'll draw a veil over the reported matter, but if you're squeamish, best not visit http://tinyurl.com/d2nmogv . All I can usefully add is, whatever our dim sum's provenance, they were tasty enough and my guts suffered absolutely no ill-effects: the only slight sickener, the bill. Drinks industry legend date got landed with that one, poor dumpling. Some are raving about the place; others point to another of Masso's cocktails, The Emperor's New Clothes. Put on your cheongsam and decide for yourself, me old China.
15 Gerrard Street W1 7734 7276 http://opiumchinatown.com/