Baroque, Mayfair

I dig the Playboy Club. I refer to its stereo ground floor bars, not what lurks upstairs. These days, down to my last (Turnbull and Asser) shirt, I'm not about to lose it in the company of sheiks and scheisters in the deadly dull gambling den on Level 1. No, I recommend it for its main bar where dapper, diminutive, cocktail maestro Salvatore Calabrese mixes mean martinis and Mai Tais in  his 1960's-style Mad Mental lounge. More recently,  Sal's son Gerry's high octane revamp of the venue's formerly forlorn Cottontail discotheque, now re-imagined as a cool cabaret lounge, has been luring me back to the bunny hutch. Rebranded Baroque, it's gussied up in pink and gold froufrou. Might 50's brassy blonde bombshell Diana Dors presently sashay through its swinging doors, trailing mink and men in her pneumatic wake? Gerry's goal is to create a vibey, rinky-dink destination to rival the Playboy's near-neighbour, once- buzzy-now-not Mayfair Cool Britannia magnet The Met Bar. To this end, Calabrese Jnr (whose Hoxton Pony is still a good bet down Shoreditch way) has set his cap at spendy Westenders,  encouraging top drawer turns such as Mark Ronson and The Kills to provide any thrills not otherwise supplied by damn fine cocktails and London's most outré champagne list - 'I'll have the  £27,000 (and then some) 1990 Bollinger Vieilles Vignes if you're buying, thanks.' Tonight, the joint is jumping as we pull up to Ms Jones's bumper when the magnificent ebony goddess graces its bijou stage. Teetering in Shard-esque f***-me pumps, all gyrating pelvis, India rubber legs and gravity-defying cleavage (poured into a black velvet boned corset), the bonkers bouncing-off-the-wall diva -  a poster girl for pensioners everywhere -  treats us to her greatest hits and Philip Treacy's greatest hats. We are in the presence of a Living Legend - although I could live without the incessant prattle of my inescapable neighbour (Baroque is by now a sardine can slam) Paloma Faith: muttering about mushy oysters over Grace's My Jamaican Guy, the pop pygmy reminds me of a Brick Lane version of Geri Halliwell. Thankfully, eye-balling Grace's fabulously freaky pick-n-mix public distracts me from the gingerminge's whinges. A rumour spreads: Cher is expected at any moment. So febrile is the atmosphere, I worry she'll melt, leaving only a pool of liquid wax, a showgirl wig, and a pile of Bob Mackie sequins as evidence of her coming. Among the couture car crash victims present, I'm impressed by the sheer chutzpah of one punter - a beefy black bird bustin' out of a seriously ill-advised, fluted gold foil, Space Age fantasy frock. She's imagining Patti Labelle circa Lady Marmalade. I'm imagining 'two pounds of Paxo orange stuffing shoved up that ginormous jacksy; roast at 230 degrees for, oh, two to three weeks, et voilà! Christmas lunch sorted.' Some of the punters look sensational; others tacky - but a night out here doesn't come as cheap as they look. Go armed with your best black Amex...or a sugar daddy. Let's just say, for the suggested minimum table spend, you could get a designer dining table and six chairs chez Selfridges. If the PR doesn't pick up my tab, looks like I'll have to risk my shirt on the roulette wheel after all. 

14 Old Park Lane W1 http://tinyurl.com/c62aotg  

Image music.uk.msn.com 

London Cocktail Week 2012

London bosses can expect mass absenteeism next week as morning-after casualties of London Cocktail Week conveniently throw ‘sickies'. Readers (who all only ever drink in moderation, natch) can snap up discounted access-all-areas wristbands, available today at the pre-event-only price of £4 (see below). These entitle the holders to £4 cocktails - that’s less than half price - at over 100 of the city’s best bars from 8th - 14th October inclusive. Many of my favourite gin joints - e.g Callooh Callay (EC2), Lucky Pig (W1), the bar at hot-ticket resto Dabbous, and Salvatore Calabrese’s Mad Men-tastic lounge at The Playboy Club - have signed up, and sexy Soho members club, Quo Vadis, will also be welcoming wristband holders. This year, much of the action centres on Seven Dials. Hit the event’s HQ, The Ketel One Hub Bar at 15 Shorts Gardens WC2 (from 10 am to 8 pm daily) for details of  free tastings, cocktail bootcamps, distil-your-own gin sessions and lots of crazy hoochy happenings. Top of the many pop-ups include Smatt’s Jamaica rum and ice cream shack, and free Cointreau ‘tails at Coco de Mer (respectively, at 53 and 23 Monmouth Street WC2), while splendid Edinburgh bar, Bon Vivant, will be doing interesting things with Monkey Shoulder blended malt whisky at 51 Neal St WC2. Frankly, if Berroca, Irn Bru and Alka Seltzer haven’t planned heal-your-hangover pop-ups too, more fool them! 

For full event details and to purchase discounted wristbands, go to www.londoncocktailweek.com

Salvatore's at The Playboy Club, Mayfair

As with Hai Karate, cream shag pile rugs and gold Ford Capris - that's a car not cropped lamé trousers by designer Tom, the sort of chap whom I suspect may own a pair for pool-side lounging - the idea of attending The Playboy Club appeals to me in a post-modern kind of way. I'm to be admitted, exceptionally, as a guest: I have more pressing need of the £1,200 annual membership and £1,000 joining fee that is otherwise required to enter its portals. Best 1977 vintage Halston tux dry-cleaned and pressed, I'm joined by the fashion stylist. She is similarly eager to investigate, having not even been born when the old London Playboy Club folded. It's been thirty years since the bunnies disappeared from Mayfair but now they're back, much to the annoyance of those camped outside when we rock up. We're harangued by a raggedy assortment of dreich Germaine Greer-y Greenham Common wimmen opposed to this venture. What's the grumpy old cows real beef ? Underneath the shouty sloganeering, I'm sensing low self-esteem issues. How else to explain going out dressed as Olive from On The Buses? Short on sisterly solidarity, the date claims the saggy haggy bra-burners could use a little help from Playtex. Negotiating their ring of ire, dodging flour bombs and sweaty fake Birkenstocks hurled in our direction, we make it into Hef's new London HQ. The bunnies I talk to see their new employment as a smart career move. Exploited bimbos? Empowered, savvy young women, more like. As for the 'degrading' costumes: flatteringly-cut boned satin looks positively coy compared to what is worn by today's average Saturday night city centre slapper. We get the grand tour. There's a sterile white casino, hilariously 1970’s-style night-club,  a grooming zone (as in moisturiser not Gary Glitteresque impropriety) and a charmless makeshift-looking dining area that offers, inter alia, wagyu burger at £42. As if! I'm way more interested in the bar, obviously. That'll be Salvatore’s, as in overseen by Signor Calabrese. Late of the late 50 St James, he's a sharp shaker for any aspiring Don Draper de nos jours to know. Yes, it's a cliché but this lounge really could be straight out of Mad Men. For rich Arab scions, ostentatious oligarchs, dictators-in-exile and people who can afford to wipe their privileged posteriors on $100 bills, it boasts a wall of extremely rare spirits. A glass of Macallan Lalique 57-years-old will lighten your bank balance by £2,000 while vintage cocktails such as White Lady, built on Gordon’s gin and Cointreau bottled in the 1930s, are slightly more affordable at £350. Rein in your inner off-duty Formula 1 driver and settle for Garlic Affair (Courvoisier, apricot brandy, lemon juice, garlic and ginger beer), modestly priced (by Playboy standards) at £16. Not so modest, Salvatore claims to make ‘the best martini in the world - ours, served by an Immodesty Blaize clone who has perfected the famous bunny dip. As we leave, the cranky crones are still ranting outside. 'Go do something useful...like picketing a brothel where trafficked 14-year-old Albanians are handcuffed to bedsteads' yells the stylist as another barrage of flour bombs rains down on us.

14 Old Park Lane , W1K 1 ND 7491 8586 www.playboyclublondon.com/