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

American Bar at the Beaumont, Mayfair

(fantasy becomes reality at The Beaumont )

I occasionally fantasise about being alive in London of the 1920s and 30s (Oi, missus! I may look ancient and decrepit but.....) Decked out by Savile Row's finest tailors; nightingales singing in Berkeley Square; bowling along a traffic-free Piccadilly, gay flappers and squiffy slappers in tow: I'm off to get royally rinsed in the American Bar at The Savoy and trip the light fantastic to Carroll Gibbons and his Orpheans in what is now that hotel's Beaufort Bar. Of course, the grim reality was much more likely to be a life of empty-bellied drudgery on the dole in Deptford, the occasional half of bitter, incurable clap and the only foreign holiday I'd ever take, a future day trip to a beach in France - no arguments - where I'd promptly have my dancing feet blown off by a Nazi mine. My reveries are likely to be further indulged - and frequently, I'm thinking - at Corbin and King's latest lounge, the devastatingly handsome, walnut-tone art deco American Bar at the Beaumont Hotel. The pile may look as if was around long before Vera dreamed of bluebirds over Dover but, back in the day, the 30s cream building it inhabits is where imaginary Me's chauffeur would park the Roller while sir rolled into Selfridges - whose garage this then was - to purchase a new Rolex oyster for his fine-boned wrist. As with other Corbin and King venues, (Wolseley, Delaunay, Colbert, Fischer's) here's a persuasive pastiche of past times where the white tux-totin' staff's drinks are similarly period and convincing: boulevardier, Brooklyn, Martinez, aviation and remember the Maine very much what Lord Barker-Main would sink back in the day. Nostalgic film set; impeccable service; modern-trad bar bites; champagne at under £50 and all the scofflaws I can scoff ? "Heaven, I'm in heaven," as my fantasy friend Fred sings it. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WOYzFKizikU

Beaumont Hotel, Brown Hart Gardens, W1K 6TF 7499 1001 

Mark's Bar at Selfridges, Marble Arch

(the height of vulgarity - NOT spotted at Selfridges) 

Selfridges sale: the entire population of Beijing appears to have invaded Oxford Street. Denied Western goods for decades, demob-happy ex-Commies are piling through the store's doors, besieging the women's shoe department where, bewitched by bling, lil' Shanghai Lils are frantically cramming their sweaty trotters into metallic bejewelled high heels so irredeemably vulgar and ostentatious, even a two-bit Vegas porno star would think twice about being filmed in them while a Mexican one-armed bandit plays her slot machine. The scene is repeated in the men's shoe department where will.i.am wannabes and Rylan Clark lookalikes pounce on Jimmy Choos and Louboutins so ugly, I'd rather wear canary yellow Crocs, quite frankly. Fortunately, less foul footwear is also available - Selfridges caters for people of taste too. Caught up in the febrile feeding frenzy, I soon find myself accidentally shelling out on a pair of low-key luxe loafers that, even at 50 percent off, cost more than a month in India, where I could have these lush Hush Puppies copied in 50 shades of gay at ten bob a pop. Thankfully - not to mention cynically? - London’s littlest cocktail bar has been introduced next to the world’s largest and most dangerous men’s shoe department. After you've downed a stiff one, blowing your wad on Tom Ford (not my fantasy to be clear) is a temptation. Designed, art deco stylee, by Lee Broom and operated by Mark Hix, the bijou bar takes up about one hundreth of the floor space allocated chez stiletto-crazy heirhead Paris Hilton to her walk-in repository for puke-awful pumps - as raided by Sofia Coppola's (clearly blind) Bling Ring. The bar is scheduled to pop-up in other areas of the store, but for now, head to Level 1 for the likes of muddy wellie, Somerset cider brandy-based idea West Country winklepicker, and Hix kix (Morello cherry and eau de vie topped with Nyetimber), as well as smoked salmon on soda bread (£5.50) and coronation chicken ‘slipper’ from a range of well-heeled snacks.

1st Floor Selfridges, 400 Oxford St W1A 1AB 

See here http://www.leebroom.com/interiors/mark-s-bar-selfridges/