The Vault at Milroy's, Soho

Like The Gay Hussar - a stagnant old Hungarian restaurant that seems stuck in the same year Soviet tanks crushed the fledgeling revolution in Budapest, 1956 - whisky merchants Milroy's, next door, is a Soho institution - albeit a less senior one, opened in 1964. With closure looming, the Hussar's campaign look to be over. Not so Milroy's. Now in the hands of Simo, its 20-something rapscallion new owner who previously ran the short-lived Coal Vaults on Wardour Street, Milroy's 2015 offers a reinvigorated vision of what went before. Sample some of the 250+ whiskies stocked at the stripped-back Georgian shop's ground floor bar's copper counter and then penetrate deeper. For what is brand new here, is The Vault. Follow resident mutt Chester through a door in a fake bookcase, downstairs to a converted stockroom, now a rough-around-the-edges liquor lair with a small bar, leather chesterfields and the Barrel Room (pictured below), a handsome piratical salon privé lined in warm wood. Folderol-free fixes include a Dutch whiskey old fashioned and Smoking Gun (pictured above), a lethal mix of corn whiskey, Oloroso and Earl Grey tincture in a wood chip-smoked martini glass. For uisge beatha avoiders, my top tips are a Mezcalito served over a blood orange ice cube, in a black sea salt-rimmed glass, and vodka, port, Campari berry and pomegranate sour, Tutti Frutti (£9.50). Cold cuts and cheese platters are available and a 60s Brit-beat, bubblegum, Northern and Tamla playlist could have been filched from my iPad. Raw, honest and with on-the-money mixes, Milroy's is a Soho whisky seller/ soul cellar to savour.    
3 Greek Street W1D 4NX 7734 2277 http://www.milroys.co.uk 

Bar Termini, Soho

Crossrail makes me cross. So much of what I hold dear, sacrificed in the goal of getting to Hanwell or Hayes and Harlington in under half an hour. (Building a moat around London to keep out the Middlesex Massive might have been money well spent). Rampaging through the West End, this most unnecessary transport Jabberwocky is chewing up and spitting out the very bars and clubs that make (or rather, once 'made') Soho so special. Lost, the inimitably louche Black Gardenia whose door policy memorably specified "No jeans! No c***s!" Sayonara seminal gay sweatbox, Ghetto! So long, Punk! Adieu, The Astoria et al. And for what? Shiny shrines to Mammon as championed by London's myopic mayors. The newt-loving numpty and the Eton mess that ousted him have traded the capital's cultural capital for offensively bland malls where brandroids can shop for the same old shit available elsewhere. Sold to the highest bidder, Soho is being serially raped by spivs, grasping property barons who will presently be pimping more 'prime retail opportunities' as Denmark Street, aka Tin Pan Alley, the cradle of British pop music, is also razed in the name of 'progress'. Spiritually harking back to the same decade as that doomed, delightful thoroughfare's heyday, the 1950s, Bar Termini is a rare nugget amid the nauseating urban blight. Tony Conigliaro's understated new bar - his first since the similarly bijou 69 Colebrooke Row in Islington - is sheer joy for those nostalgic for the peroxide blonde, stiletto-heeled glamour of Soho circa The Krays, albeit with a classy, retro-modern edge Ronnie and Reggie would not recognise. Inspired by those chic buffet bars common to Italy's grand railway hubs ('termini'), this first class carriage, all slouchy high-backed banquette, looks the palle di cane - as I once translated 'the mutt's nuts' to a table of baffled Milanese business associates. At Tony's trad marble-topped counter, suave signori - handsome in pristine white tuxes - serve up a slice of La Dolce Vita from dawn until late. The menu is concise: (Illy) caffeine fixes and sugar rush pastries, Peroni, Prosecco, two wines, £1-a-pop panini, cheeses, tomato tartare and salumi. Any latter day Marcello and Anita will find elegantly presented drinks served with a Tony C trademark twist. His negronis include delicate rose petal, or perky pink peppercorn takes as well as a beefy Beefeater gin-based classic version. Aperol spritz (£8) is nuanced with rhubarb cordial and a soupçon of almond blossom informs a trad Bellini. Savour the experience while it lasts. For how long before Old Compton Street's soul is sold to the Devil incarnate: fast-buck property developer filth?
7 Old Compton Street W1D 5JE http://www.bar-termini.com

Bittersweet, Soho

Open to random lushes until 10pm, Bittersweet then morphs into a members-only DJ lounge. Sign up for free membership online if you plan to enjoy late-night cocktails in West Soho and can't crash Milk and Honey, The Player, The Groucho etc, etc, etc, etc. Set in a slightly claustrophobic submarine-like basement, as the Pinstripe Club, this was where Christine Keeler and Profumo trysted in a 1960s scandal that ultimately brought the government down. Latterly, it was the Kingly Club, whose cool cream leather Bond villain lair look has been ousted in favour of new pinky white decor that's sophisticated in a kind of early 90s Essex wine bar way - or like a 'Chicken Cottage's lavs' according to my date who clearly gets around more than I do. From a range of £9 classics that includes Aviation, Martininez (sic) and Sazerac, Negroni is fair, but  served over too many ice cubes, Vieux Carré quickly becomes too dilute.  Signatures include Vanilla Monk - vodka, Frangelico, Kahlua and cream; spirits by the bottle start at £120 (for Grey Goose/ Tanqueray/ ); and early-bird deals include £10 off champagne and half price wine and cocktails. Bittersweet’s sister is Dirty Martini whose two West End bars, on balance, I prefer.

4 Kingly Court W1B 5PW 0844 371 2550 http://bittersweetsoho.co.uk 

see more reviews at www.squaremeal.co.uk 

KCz ( formerly SofaKingCool), Soho

‘Have you tried Sofa King Cool?’ asks a pal. I’m affronted. Do I look like I'm in the market for a leatherette three-piece suite and matching pouffe from some DFS-clone off the North Circular? Sofa King Cool - say it quickly if, like me, you’re a bit slow on the uptake - is Soho's 'modern newest gay concept venue', it transpires. It promises a ‘cosy setting for wanna-be-lovers to fawn over each other’ and a ‘trendy retro feel.’ That'll be 1990 revisited, when, If easyJet did VIP lounges, I imagine they’d have looked like this. All orange, black and shiny with ‘high poseur tables’, stylistically, it's a bit ‘gay’... in the Peckham patois sense of the word. All shiny sculpted cheekbones and matching hair, does our retro-tastic bartender moonlight in a New Kids on the Block tribute band when not making margaritas, I wonder? Served with £4-a-pop bites -  calamari with spicy mayo, fish goujons with chilli mayo and food last deemed 'fancy' when Simon Mayo was still a rookie DJ - ‘professionally prepared cocktails’ include Manhattan, Million Dollar Mojito (£8) and Lavender Martini. Sex on the Beach, also appears: the déclassé Benidorm binge-drinker’s favourite might help lubricate Leroy, a junior crimper at suburban salon Curl Up and Dye - the ‘wanna-be-lover’ some dodgy sugar daddy aims to have his wicked way with, rating him ‘sofa king horny.’ 

23 Frith Street, W1D 4RR 7734 3268 https://www.facebook.com/pages/SofaKingCool/195734540558912 

Postscript: a mere three months after launching, it seems SofaKingCool has singularly failed to pull the Soho Cool. How else to explain its transformation, according to its female CEO, into a "womens only resteraunt (sic) and bar." She tells the Standard newspaper the new venture is to be 'a place .. by women for women...(but) not just for gay women. Networking is the main thing.”  Hmmm why am I thinking Candy Bar crossed with spendy dames-only members club Grace (yours to access for £5,500 pa) in Belgravia? This niche market is notoriously tricky to call. As a DJ in my 20s, I laughed in the face of a straight Northern male club owner who planned to cash in, launching 'Lez Dawson's' - a putative Pimlico gay club for big girls and their fanciers. The sisterhood was not amused: Lez's lasted two weeks. In December, the Canadian rugby-playing female CEO of NotSofaKingCool's replacement canvassed the Twitterati for suggestions as to what sort of bar/ restaurant 'da girls' might be currently hankering after. Given the CEO's idea of a 'yummy meal' (see pic right and at @KCGATES ) coupled with the new venue's  handle "KC'z", what modern wimmin want now, presumably, is something that sounds like a Doncaster dykes disko circa The Hitman and Her.

Post-postscript: 9.15 pm, a wet Thursday night in February 2013: an animated KC is out on Old Compton Street pressing 2-4-1 promo flyers on passers-by like a desperate Playa del Ingles tout. We take one and venture into her kingdom (queendom?). The place looks much the same as before only with even less punters. We leave. Where is the Sunshine Band when KC needs you most?

Post-post-postscript: March 2013. News reaches me that KC'z latest guise is to be as a restaurant called LABELS - which sounds more like a naff designer boutique in Burnley circa Hazell Dean. Apparently, one of its dishes is to be breaded mushrooms with garlic mayo. make that circa early Helen Shapiro....the sort of nice young girl KC'z older target audience might remember fondly. 

Heliot at The Hippodrome, West End

When I was a yoof, Peter Stringfellow ran discos at The Hippodrome. One night, with an exotic tableau vivant as backdrop, we were in full ‘le freak, c’est chic’ mode when, quite without warning, the tableau's star turn, Queen Bluey, leapt into the audience. Cue pandemonium and a Daily Mail headline: ‘lioness scatters nightclub dancers.’ I survived unscathed; so too, Boy George, I recall. Now a Vegas style casino, the venue’s restaurant and red and black Tom Dixon-designed cocktail bar has been branded Heliot at the Hippodrome, after Claire Heliot, an Edwardian lady lion tamer who appeared here - albeit, not on the one night when they needed her most. Served by wenches in Moulin Rouge-lite costumes - why am I thinking ‘Ann Summers sale rail’? - Vesper, Gibson and brandy-based martini Delmonico are fair at £9.50; and bespoke cocktails by Tony Conigliaro, I’m told, will soon also appear. But Heliot’s USP is that it stays open 24/7 every day (except December 25th). After a night out, hole up here until the first Tube, spending the cab fare to Zone 5 you just saved on bubbly (from £25), hot dogs, sliders and croques (although perhaps not rubbery scotch eggs) and puff away, happy as Larry the lab beagle, on a terrace open to the night sky. I’m told there’s also a cabaret lounge where Dionne Warwick recently played and Suzi Quatro is to appear. Or did I hallucinate that? Anyway, Bluey was real: wanna come back to mine and see my Press clippings?

Cranbourn St WC2H 7JH  7769 8888 www.hippodromecasino.com

And Co, Soho

A poster above the entrance to this new quasi-clandestine cellar says ‘I LIKE IT. WHAT IS IT?’ London’s newest 'drinking experience', ‘And Co’; that’s what. I’m seated at a granite-topped island counter. Behind its basin and taps, whatever spirits contained within known only to staff, myriad decanters and bottled potions are neatly stacked on shelves in wood and glass display cabinets. Mine host/ resident barman/ professor expounds ‘the concept.’ Suddenly, I’m 12 again, in chemistry class - only, this time, held in what feels like a display kitchen at  Magnet's Kensington High Street showroom. In this boffin's dark subterranean lab (the latest wheeze from the chaps who own Soho's Graphic bar) , brand identity is taboo. Strategic advertising and cunning marketing are the enemies of individual choice - or sum such cant, is the message being preached here, I think. In truth, I've zoned out, transfixed by my guru's strange Scouse/Indonesian accent and uncanny resemblance to a Thunderbirds puppet. Together, hand-in-hand, we're on a quest. Tonight, I am to be introduced to my own personal gin Jesus. But first there's a Ron L. Hubbard-esque multiple choice quiz to wade through. I’m left to ponder a lengthy list of tasting notes grouped by spirit, flavour and style: ‘complex and oaky; ‘fresh and zesty’; hmm, pretentious and poncey? Wearying of Prof’s protracted probing, I’m fast becoming one V restless paying guinea pig. ‘Tanqueray 10, Beefeater 24 and Berry Brothers No.3 all work for me,’ I say, growing desperate. I'm now so gagging for a drink, neat turps would do. Patience, child! Presently, an utterly exquisite dry martini, all ‘weighty viscous mouth feel, liquorice, slight stone fruit sweetness’ and yadda yadda yadda-ness is delivered in exchange for £13 (well, £6.50 actually; there's 50% during & Co's soft opening period). ‘I LIKE IT. WHAT IS IT?’ Prof’ won’t say; presumably, lest I cheat on him and order similar elsewhere. Thus, I am forever his. Cunning marketing, indeed.

22 Great Marlborough Street, W1F 7HU 7437 4106 http://centralandco.com

Bar Américain, Soho

When the Regent Palace Hotel was demolished, the site's developers promised its basement bar would be carefully packed away and reinstated within the new building. ‘PR twaddle, I thought.  As part of the Atlantic restaurant, it had been a fiercely stylish Beautiful People hangout circa Hugh Grant with Liz Hurley in THAT dress. All softly-lit chrome, frosted glass, dark leather and oaky ethereal gorgeousness, this elegant art deco lounge belonged in an old MGM musical set on a 1930s ocean liner. Joy of joys, it was run by drinks industry legend Dick Bradsell, inventor of Espresso Martini, Treacle, Bramble and the daft-sounding but distinctly doable Snood Murdekin -  future classic cocktails to make a chap dance on the ceiling like Fred Astaire. Bradsell has moved on -  currently to be found at Soho hip pit, The Pink Chihuahua  - but good to their word, the developers - with a little help from David Collins Studio - have indeed recreated Dick's former domain piece-by-lovely-piece. Rebranded Bar Américain, it's a destination den at Corbin  and KIng’s new baby, Zédel. Head downstairs past the Josephine Baker-style cabaret bar, Crazy Coqs, towards the main draw, a buzzy gilded Montparnasse-style brasserie,  swing a right under by the 'vestiare', et voilà - 1932 revisited. My drinking buddy claims it reminds him of the bar scene in The Shining; but any carnage here is likely to be on account of the bar's resident tuxedoed matinée idols' sours, slings and things: Sazerac, The Gatsby and The Calloway (a bourbon, port and fig flip), impeccable at £9.75. My only gripe is that, on two otherwise faultless visits,  the clientele has been less ocean liner more Coach Trip. Time for London’s beau monde to reclaim this grand old girl, surely?

20 Sherwood St W1F 7ED 7734 4888 www.brasseriezedel.com 

Circa, Soho

There was a time - twixt Yazz and Yazoo - when every second new watering hole that opened was a gay bar. Now, such launches are as rare as a hair on a gym-buffed Kylie worshiper's waxed back sack and crack. Bucking the trend, is Circa whose presence in what was formerly Jrink - a name so naff, it deserved to go bust - I had missed. Note to self: must get out more - limiting it to six nights a week has left me so out of the fruit loop. Nailing the myth that 'benders' are innately more stylish than 'breeders' - terms borrowed from a gay hairdresser of my acquaintance, may I add, before the green ink brigade starts accusing me of homophobia - Circa's curious design is more Justin and Colin than David Collins. Was signing off on a mood board that apparently included 60’s discotheque, Downton Abbey, Miami Vice ‘style’ bar and folksy Greenwich Village tavern really such a good idea?  Circa's mish-mashy-meh interior echoes its diverse range of punters: PC slaves; S&M slaves in M&S suiting; slaves to fashion as dictated by mypartnerDavidFurnish, TOWIE Harry clones, caustic Lauren Harries tribute acts and Superdry guys fresh from the gym, pre-loading on shots  ahead of some action. Bar staff, friendly enough souls unlike at various rival gay holes I could mention (drop the attitude, girlfriend!) have possibly been picked more for their torsos than any ability to mix a top drawer Vieux Carré (cocktails are available). The boyz do their best, doling out draught Kro’, wines from £11 and bubbles from around £20 until 1 am - by which time, any sausage in serious need of some schlong, will have long since logged onto Gaydar - the reason gay bars seem to be losing their pulling power of yore, I suspect.
62 Frith St. W1 7734 6826 www.circasoho.com 

(find more reviews at www.squaremeal.co.uk)

Kinbaku, Soho (CLOSED see THE BLIND PIG)

Whenever I’ve worked in Japan over the years, I’ve always found its idyosyncratic mix of starchy respectability and out-there sexual practices as compelling as its ‘what the fuck?’ food menus. I’m hopeful that the upstairs cocktail bar at sushi mini-chain Ukai’s Poland Street premises will turn out to be an education.  For, as themes go, Kinbaku - a Japanese SM bondage technique based on knotted jute rope once used to restrain prisoners - intrigues me more than the currently ubiquitous ‘Prohibition-era speakeasy’ concept. Alas, on inspection, the scene is about as vanilla as Ben & Jerry: that’s ice cream, not a dreary suburban gay couple. Risqué fetishistic behaviour? The only thing vibrating in here, are hi-fi speakers pumping out  'meh' house. Still, there’s a sexy enough saké/ shochu list to push your boundaries plus Sapporo and Asahi, wines from £16.50 and house bubbles (Jacquart) at £8 a flute. A similar sum bags cocktails from masterly mixologists. Try saké san (Tanqueray, Kuboto Senju saké, lemon and minty shiso leaf liqueur, sweetened); apple and lychee martini or a plum mojito. I should also add that the Ginger Sling is a drink, not a contraption that facilitates transforming a suspended redhead into your own personal glove puppet for your mutual pleasure.

58 Poland Street W1 7734 1444 www.kinbaku.me.uk

Pix, Soho

As well as the bit about getting paid to neck free cocktails, a chunk of my schizophrenic CV details long champagne-fuelled paid-for days spent hanging out with guys in their pants. Well, that’s the rag trade for you, sweetie. But for every Scott Maslen, Charley Speed and Vernon Kay, male models that graduated from the Keith Barker-Main Academy of Catwalk Shufflers  to TV, there are ninety-seven others 'resting', tending bar or slinging hash in two-bit gin joints. Two of their number high five me at Pix, new in W1. 'We worked together in Milan?' says Greg. No offence hon, but I've become so fashion-showed out over the years, the only member of that mental industry I still recognise on sight is bobbed-breadstick-in- Balenciaga Anna Wintour; and only then because I have a photo of Ms Faceache Frigidaire pinned to my dart board. Thing is, I’m here for the mojitos and pinxtos, the Basques’ take on tapas, not the talent.  My pal, however, is more interested in the dishes behind the counter than on it; particularly when I tell her that, as with most male models, contrary to folklore, they’re straight so far as I can recall. Eye candy aside, branch número dos de Pix - their Notting Hill gig has closed but the Covent Garden operation remains open - is a useful Soho fall-back. It may not be quite up there with the likes of Salt Yard and Fino a few blocks north, but with two dozen Spanish wines including organic Campo Verdejo sauvignon at £19.50, Cava from £5, dirty martinis (£9.50), a cosy interior and groovy rare groove i-Podery (Lonnie Liston-Smith, Ronnie Laws, Brother to Brother, Jean Carn - yay!) what’s not to dig? A less than model selection of sherries with neither available by the glass, maybe? What’s that about, amigos?

16 Bateman Street W1 7937 0377 http://www.pix-bar.com/

Barrio Central, Soho

When I fleetingly shared a hot-headed Hispanic couple’s Manhattan apartment, I soon discovered why their decor was minimalist; for them, Saturday Night Fever meant an accusatory bust-up over some imagined peccadillo, Puerto Rican histrionics demanding furniture, ornaments and anything else to hand be totally trashed, Tom & Jerry-style. Repeat such carnage at Barrio Central, an homage to the Americas’ inner city ‘hoods,  and the bill for damages would be light; the new Soho bar’s kitschy retro-junk furnishings look to have been salvaged from a San Juan skip. But if the look is Tijuana trailer trash, the carnival atmosphere and killer cócteles make this Chicano hermano to Islington’s Barrio North as tasty as a Celia Cruz compilation. Sure-footed recipes collated on a Motorcycle Diaries-style roadtrip across the continent merengue in the mouth; Brazilian Lady, Gran Turismo and Flor de Rita impress and our unflappable waitress, Kim, is a star, coaxing chef - after the kitchen has shut - to rustle up a mountain of salsa-fied beef nachos big enough to feed half of Honduras. With Latin DJs and live bands limbo-rocking a tiki club bar downstairs, Barrio is the dog’s maracas. My warring ex-roomies would fancy the tequila and fizz-based No Brainer, served in a porcelain Mexican wrestling mask, it’s a knock-out punch.  

6 Poland Street W1 3230 1002 http://www.barriocentral.com/

Sequence, Islington (CLOSED now Bar Prague): Sanctum, Soho

Islington needs new bars like I need new shoes; i.e. not! - but it keeps happening anyway. Welcome to Sequence (pictured), ‘London’s first multimedia bar’ we’re told. Free wi-fi, video-games and vintage cartoon clips projected onto bare walls: Hmm, innovative! We order £7 Whitley Neil dry martinis; they come wet, but otherwise, resident Italian shakermaker is on the ball. Decor is inoffensive; I’m feeling four star hotel in Bodrum - a truly rad departure from the indie-grungy Essex Rd norm. Mark (Embassy Club) Fuller’s Sanctum Soho, a boutique hotel occupying adjoining townhouses, is firmly aimed at rock’n’rollers. The quirky pile offers private cinema, brasserie and individually styled hi-tech rooms decked out in bad-ass badda-bling. Up-lit bathtubs-cum-Cristal chillers are strategically positioned at the feet of porno-tatsic beds the size of Belgium - ideal for you and all of The Pussycat Dolls. At the hotel’s launch, we smirk at such OTT design. ‘Were the Cheeky Girls involved?’ ponders superchic date, before a podgy Eurotrash gnome in cheap tailoring and kiddie-sized cowboy boots - think Sarko, les années Krispy Kreme - demands she ‘show us ‘uuure teetees!’ What’s French for ‘ever had your lights punched out, Napoléon?’ Directly overlooked by various offices, a decked roof terrace - all loungers, jacuzzi and champagne in plastic flutes, presumably lest they’re chucked overboard? - includes a bar housed in what looks like a Neasden home extension. Not exactly Shoreditch House! Guests only may access this playground, but check in with a couple of mates - cheaper than the price of separate cabs back to the sticks - and you too can live the high life like Pearl Lowe back in the day.  

Bar Sequence, 43 Essex Rd N1 7683 0751

Sanctum Soho, 20 Warwick St. W1 7292 6100

Lost Angel, Battersea: Friendly Society, Soho

Don’t let tricky transport links deter you, The Lost Angel(pictured) is a genuine find . I liked Dusk, the previous occupant of this site in a part of deepest Battersea still waiting to be discovered by Livingstone, but its Buddha Bar-lite duds have entered the Twilight Zone, replaced by the new owners’ vision in Victorian kitsch. A sister to Clapham’s Lost Society, that bar’s reputation for consistently good drinks and chilled ambience is successfully translated here. Don’t be fooled by the name, a ‘Booze’ menu - all 12 pages of it - contains creative cocktails built on superior spirit bases. Try the Proper British selection‘s Peary Mason (Godminster rhubarb voddie, pear jam, rhubarb liqueur, lemon juice and egg white), a £6.50 summer quencher, or choose from well-executed classics and contemporary stonkers. A lunch offer - two courses and cocktail for £20 - should be seized on; its anglo-continental dishes a cut above the usual sous vide gastropub norm. Staff that look like they belong inLauren Laverne’s latest hot tip band are sweethearts, swiftly changing the music when two mates moan in unison ‘anything but bleedin’ Bob Marley!’ David Soul's Silver Lady, Chuck Berry and Roger Miller’s King Of The Road are among the DJ’s turntable picks at Friendly Society, a bijou, watery, aqua-tone underworld set in a louche alley patrolled by ladies prepared to be very friendly...at a price. Campy twinks dance in a circle - a gaisy chain? - and quaff bargain shampers (£29.50), jugs of ale and cloying, lychee-based martinis. Babycham mascots, glitterballs, Barbie dolls and dangly mobiles fashioned from flash handbags once sold in 1950s shopping malls are both witty and charming as, on a good night, is formidable post-punk landlady, Maria. Confession, lest I be labelled partisan; its owners are mates which explains why it always feels like coming home whenever I descend the Friendly's steep stairs.

The Lost Angel, 339 Battersea Park Rd , SW11 7622 2112

Friendly Society, Tisbury Court, 79 Wardour St W1 7434 3805