El Nivel, Covent Garden

 (Easy Rider!)

Mezcal is having a moment in London's better bars. Deservedly so. It may still be a niche product in the UK today, but long ago and far away, tequila's sexy sister had me from hello. On a wild night south of El Paso, we first locked lips in a backstreet bodega. What drew the 20-year-old me to Mistress Mezcal was her ability to render me para' without the usual loss of speech, use of limbs and the inevitable chucking-out time up-chuck shame. Hers was a more subtle, cerebral high; comfortably numb, as if shot full of peyote, quaaludes and stardust to a damped-down trippy soundtrack of Santana, The Doors, Hendrix, Curtis Mayfield,  America's A Horse With No Name and a dose of dirty dancing salsa. Like the best burlesque artistes, mezcal sheds her layers slowly, reeling you in, intriguing, tantalising and, ultimately, leaving you begging for more. If your experience of mezcal is of the worm-infested acid touted by tacky tramps in stetsons variety, get yourself an education at El Nivel, a pared-down 30's Latino-style bar, lurking, unannounced, behind what looks like a cupboard door to the left of the entrance to La Perla restaurant. Named after the Mexico City cantina wherein renegades Che Guevara and Castro conspired, la Perla (an upscale departure from its Café Pacifico group siblings' format) aims to revolutionise attitudes to Mexico's oft-maligned national spirits - mezcal and tequila. Collated by the Café Pacific head honcho/ Jack Kerouac manqué, Tomas Estes (pictured) - an authority on all things agave (see http://fortequilalovers.com/tomas-estes/ ) - they are served here with top notch antojitos, or "little cravings" as the the collective noun for Mexican street food translates. Purists sip theirs neat, but mezcal is magic in cocktails too. Ease yourself in with La Poderosa (Vida mezcal, agave nectar, lime, cardamom and lavender bitters and fizz). Follow that with a mezcal fix made with QuiQuiRiQui, roasted pineapple syrup, lime, Cynar and saltwater spray - smokey, complex and rewarding at £9. Now, you're ready to go all the way, naked. See? You're hooked! When it comes to mainlining mezcal, like Curtis sang it, "I'm your pusherman." http://tinyurl.com/aq5lk54

26 Maiden Lane WC2E 7JS 7240 7400 http://www.cafepacifico-laperla.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!

Qui Qui Ri Qui, Hoxton (Now CLOSED)

I'm not happy. It's chucking it down. I'm out East, and I'm being dissed by a lump of lard parked up in his fart-filled white van. 'Oi darling, ' he sneers, perving over my Glamazonian blonde date, 6ft tall in this season's Marc Jacobs heels and hot pants. 'What you doing with a fat old bastard like 'im, when you could 'ave me' - not to mention the chlamydia, crack habit, spent Stella cans, takeaway containers and skid-marked rancid baby-batter-stained Primark trackie bottoms strewn on the floor of a fetid pit on BNP Avenue E29 that accompany his gracious offer? His type, and the waaaaay scarier wankers who held me up there at knifepoint, aeons ago, are why I largely avoid Hackney Road by night. I have also largely avoided mescal since I holed-up in Mexico - shaking, sobbing and quasi-sectionable - after over-enthusiastic youthful experimentation with tequila’s turbo-charged sister convinced me I was being stalked by a giant sombrero-wearing Technicolor killer banana called Hector. (Me, paranoid... much?) Tonight, I’m back in mescal's clutches...in Hackney Road...in a louche David Lynch-esque basement, its walls plastered with brash 1960s Mexican cartoon porn depicting pneumatic bimbos pursued by ’El Afeitador’ (the shaver) ‘de Pubis’ (guess!). What could possibly go wrong? Ominious as it seems on paper, this sexy/sleazy (legal) late-late-night shebeen - located beneath a kebab shop, for added glamour - is all good. The rare spirits sold at London’s first dedicated mezcaleria, QuiQuiRiQui - that’s cock-a-doodle-do in Spanish to you - really are worth crowing about. After £8 Mescal Negroni and Pink Taco cocktails, mine (Danish) hippy host - who is happily ‘living the mescal lifestyle, man’ - introduces me to the hard stuff. Subtle Santa Domingo Albarradas - all pear drops, pepper, chilli and turmeric notes - for example, would hold its own against many a malt whisky. As, at £10.95 per double, it bloody well should. Presently, Mistress Mescal’s magical fuzzy buzz kicks in, so too does a familiar track, and I'm rendered Comfortably Numb. Have I really spotted Jake Shears dressed as a Day of the Dead skeleton by the tiny bar, or am I hallucinating again? Hackney Road: guaranteed walk on the wild side

184 Hackney Road E2 7QLhttp://quiquiriqui.co.uk/