The City of Quebec, Marylebone

The Quebec first opened in the run-up to World War II. At the height of The Blitz (so, I'm reliably informed), "Hello sailor!" was a common greeting at this ancient queer beer bar, as one strand of London society cemented the Special Relationship with America - whose off-duty Marines and GIs had more to offer than chewing gum and silk stockings. Back in the day,  'gay' was an adjective restricted to describing the jaunty Jacqmar silk scarf Mrs. Miniver wore to jolly up her make-do-and-mend frock, fashioned from a pair of brown curtains. It looked like curtains too for The Quebec - threatened with a future as another faceless fast food joint - until owners Greene King stepped in and saved the old girl, splashing a six-figure sum on a make over that drags the Quebec's tired decor into the 21st Century (just).
 At a time when gay bars are going down faster than a fluffer on Sean Cody's porn star penis, it's a welcome reprieve for (Nelly) 'the elephant's graveyard' - as I've oft heard the place referred to on account of its core punters' seniority. Marvel, as mouthy slappers such as Lola Lasagne, Baga Chipz or Vanity Von Glow strut their stuff onstage. Still got it? Shake a leg to Dolly, Dusty, Donna and Madonna in the Quebec's downstairs disco, open until 3am at weekends. When I say 'shake a leg', I'm reminded of an evening - circa Kylie, Mel and Kim - when a forlorn Glaswegian pal asked me to escort him there. That's 'escort' as in chaperone; I don't accept Amex. Recently dumped (again), he was out on a bender, hoping to be under one before the night was through. A crinkly screamer hobbled over to chat up chuckee chum who, on a there-but-for-the- grace-of-God basis, decided to humour the poor thing. Motioning downwards, the gummy old queen piped up with “My strap-on is giving me gip. You won't mind if I take it off?” ...and duly does, propping  his prosthetic lower left limb up against our table. Chuckee (mortified): “Nae mair drink for you, hen! You’re fuckin' legless." By the time I took my leave of them, they looked mighty cosy but, to this day, Chuckee swears he did not fuck Legless. 
At the new old Quebec, butch it up with draught TT Landlord or try dolly cocktails shaken by 'Delicious Dave'' (pictured, below) - cheap by West End standards (the drinks, not Dave!)
 "You'll love the Dainty Damsel" (a Sipsmith damson vodka Bellini) maintains a bright-eyed staffer, mistaking me for TOWIE's Bobby Norris or Gok Wan ("Liberace, more like!" - Editor). She also reckons I'll like the "really good Prosecco." At £48 quid a pop, I should hope so. "Show me!" I say. She points to a bottle of Bollinger. OMG! Vada the dizzy polone! That's polari, by the way. "Polari?" you say. Ask Biggins, Barrymore, a retired Romford riah zhoosher, or some other gnarly ol' Nancy!

12 Old Quebec Street W1H 7AF  www.facebook.com/CityOfQuebec

Photo: Greene King / Louise Jolley

Canvas, Shoreditch

“We are cocktails and art" proclaims new DJ-lates bar Canvas, hoping to explain what sets it apart from the herd. Let's see: "Whether it's through paint, print, interior design, or even our cocktail menu created by Jumbles St. Pierre, everyone and everything in Canvas laments (sic) the importance of passion, art and creativity within our unique and ground-breaking concept." By the look of the art on Canvas's blank canvas tonight, I'm not sure the acquisitive Mr. Jopling will in the  long-term lament not opening his cheque book to its young creators. There again, I'm more  Corot and Courbet than White Cube contemporary; so WTF do I know? What I can spot, is a decent cocktail. And what Jumbles St. Pierre (oh how I love a good Jackie Collins' read) has come up with is more persuasive than rough and ready decor that lies somewhere between Warhol's Factory and a Wild West saloon; Canvas's barmen in black, more Milky Bar Kid than Johnny Cash. Three to try, are dark diplomat (a chocolate-orange twisted 'Diplomatico rum Manhattan’), banana cabana (if you're sweet on sweet), and Wild Turkey and Frangelico, fruit-flavaoured slug, wild angel. Canvas sits midway between Hoxton Square and the lurid late-night chicken cottages of Old Street Roundabout. If the area's pallid peculiars are to adopt Canvas, its 'greeters' will have their work cut out, repelling repellant boozed-up oiks looking for the grotty cheap pub it replaces and visitations from plagues of Hummer-borne Billericay Fake Bake Biancas out on Saturday's rapacious razzle. However tasty ‘upcyled’ (sic) Patrón Silver, mango and lime, chilli-frosted punch, this weary old banging DJ bar-avoider would rather drop £12 at nice Nightjar, Loves Company or Happiness Forgets around the corner. 
235 Old Street EC1V 9HE 7336 0275 www.canvasbar.co.uk

Far Rockaway, Shoreditch

When I lived in New York,  reliant on the kindness of strangers, my Brooks Brothers shorts and Sebago deck shoes' days were spent at East Hampton or Fire Island Pines...the latter, as close as I ever got to Queens...as in the borough that's home to that big-in-the-1960s pleasure beach at Far Rockaway (the inspiration for this vast new Shoreditch bar/ diner on the site of the old Elbow Rooms) as opposed to the Greenwich Village People variety. Here, in eye-bleedingly busy Slush Puppy-tone colour-clash, it's the New York scene circa Basquiat, Keith Haring, Shannon's Let The Music Play, Flashdance and neon-lovin' fashion designer Stephen Sprouse that is referenced. Welcome to 1983 - complete with skateboard sculptures, album sleeve collages, a library of 4,000 Marvel comics and a DJ booth made from old ghetto blasters. To my been-there-got-the-t-shirt-and-framed-it eyes, it's all a bit ersatz - like that other 1983 NY phenomenon, Madonna - but although this is not, by some stretch, my idea of the coolest Shoreditch bar, I like its pose and swagger immensely. It's full-on, frenetic and fun (and not aimed at me, doh!) For the weekend TOWIEs that pour into the 'Ditch from London's equivalents of Far Rockaway (Southend/ Clacton/ Canvey Island), however, I'm guessing this big brash commercial brute, open until 2 am, will become the go-to DJ party shack, fuelled by lemon meringue pie, peanut butter cup, and purple haze cocktails, frozen margaritas (how very 1980s!) crack baby shooters and hot bitches (Babicka vodka, passion fruit, peppers, vanilla sugar and black pepper) at £7. In the diner - think post-disco Happy Days - pizza, franks, clubs, mac'n'cheese, meatball hero, wings, ribs, cheesecakes and brownies are the sort of eats avaialble 24/7 Stateside that remind me how, had I stayed in America for good, I'd be the size of Brooklyn, Queens, Manhattan and Staten Island too by now.
97 - 113 Curtain Road EC2A 3BS 8305 3090 http://www.farrockaway.co.uk

Voltaire, Blackfriars

Located in the bowels of the Crowne Plaza hotel, this new City cocktail and champagne lounge's glitzy decor, oversized furniture and the sort of baroque scatter cushions I imagine are strewn around the Upper Class cabins on Air Dubai, strike me as the sort of thing the Crown Prince of Takijstan might fancy. He'll definitely fancy Volatire's selection of Pommery - the most comprehensive in London, I'm told - and a range of hand-rolled Cubans to be enjoyed on a smoking terrace that turns out to be more of an alleyway that ain't strictly palatial. Off it, kitted out with throne-sized armchairs, day beds, faux fur throws and iPod docking systems, a series of individual converted cellars carry names such 'the Wit', 'the Aphorist' and 'the Host'- the latter aimed at 'social butterflies and gentry with entourage in tow...' or was that 'entourage in TOWIE'? Welcome to Voltaire's USP - 'the vaults.'  Accommodating between 4 and 20 guests, these private cubby holes are 'ideal for fashion shows and hen parties', I learn. Importantly, 'what goes on in the vaults' - anything from City boys getting messy to somebody messing around with somebody else’s missus, I imagine - 'stays in the vaults' claims Voltaire's manager with a knowing wink. I'm squiring somebody else's missus tonight but any hanky panky, in our case, is limited to swapping salacious details of what a gold- digging tramp of our acquaintance has been getting up to with a (happily married) TV show host (whose name must also stay in the vaults, say my lawyers). Cocktails are hit and miss. File a basil and cucumber Hendricks sour (garnished with a trial size face mask from the hotel's spa!) under 'hit'; a chilli and parsley martini, subjectively described as 'All Things Nice, under 'miss.' Attractively presented bar snacks might best be filed under 'comme ci, comme ça.'  As far as cocktail bars within a two minute walk of Blackfriars station go, this one is a must; but to paraphrase Voltaire's great creation Candide, if this is truly 'le meilleur des mondes possibles', then I'm Baudelaire. 
19 New Bridge Street EC4 6DB 7438 8054 www.voltairebar.co.uk

Looking Glass Cocktail Club, Shoreditch

Callooh Callay may have got there first, but that has not prevented this nearby newbie from also referencing Lewis Carroll.  Given its owners' other bar is The White Rabbit in Stokie, 'Looking Glass' fits the overall brand, I suppose. What next? The Queen of Hearts - where punters down free mezcal, Aftershock and meths shooters to cheers of 'off with their heads?' Tweedledum - a niche Hoxton venue aimed at thickos - and Tweedledummer, its Brentwood twin for the TOWIE cast to hang out at? To those not used to the currently fashionable London pursuit of  'hunt the hidden door', this cocktail joint will seem a bit on the poky side. You, of course - wise to their game - will instantly identify the white framed looking glass as a portal to another dimension, in true Alice style, a magnified mirror image of your current surroundings. Into the room's concrete industrial shell - the place was formerly a rag trade wholsealer's - chuck tacky antiqued Louis XVI furniture as found in geriatric Jews' Golders Green villas ('Why buy a load of old schlock for thousands of pounds when you can find the same thing, only brand new, for a pony in a sale on the Edgware Road, bubeleh?') To this, add DJs, live bands, burlesque and cocktails that just keep getting curiouser and curiouser. Pop Goes The Walrus (a buttered popcorn-infused bourbon and caramel sundae) and Looking Glass Fizz (stewed ‘brambly’ apples, blackcurrant, gingerbread and prosecco) may not scream 'DRINK ME!' (to me), but if High Tea (vodka, strawberry jam, milk and rum'n'raisin ice cream) is your cuppa, hare down to Hoxditch and discover Wonderland! 
49 Hackney Road E2 7613 3936 http://lookingglasslondon.co.uk  

The Merchant of Bishopsgate, The City

This new ‘freehouse and kitchen’ imagines itself ‘so good, you’ll want to miss your train.’ Its TOWIE-understudy customers seemingly concur. Preferring cask ales and £15 Lamberti Blush to Liverpool Street’s rush hour cattle trucks, they gossip about hair gel and ‘Mee-chelle’ being ‘well jel.’  Do ‘Great Cocktails!’ match that boast? ‘Dunno. They’re off, ‘ announces a waitress. ’People didn’t like them...or something.’ I order Sancerre from the Enomatic dispenser instead - frisky and fresh at £7.60 a glass. Parroting various (better) rivals’ design vernacular, The Merchant’s clichéd patter feels less fresh: trite shouty slogans as art; tinny tinnitus-y house muzak; canned Spam in a display of ‘heritage’ packaged goods; and from Downton Junction’s lost luggage office, battered Edwardian suitcases sprayed white hint at the old boat trains from Harwich to the Hook of Holland and exotic destinations beyond. On a table opposite, love’s young reem, Bill and Rikki from Billericay, chew on one another’s faces while I chew over a six-for-£20 ‘grazer’ selection that includes mini burger sliders (fair) smoked salmon in cheese scones (was that ‘stones’?) and risible, rubbery ‘blackpudding scotch egg’ (the dog’s chew toy minus the squeak). Suddenly, that Spam looks inviting. The prototype for a chain, The Merchant hopes to ‘revolutionise the station pub.’ I’ll stick with The Gilbert Scott at St.Pancras, thanks. 

Lower Concourse, Liverpool Street Station www.iamthemerchant.com