Lanes (of London), Mayfair

 (Doh! Hard to miss really) 

I'm invited to road test the lounge bar at refurbed restaurant Lanes (of London). We meet at The Dorchester - handily located next door, I seem to recall from the deets I've stupidly left at home. "Eurr Eurr' as the buzzer noise goes when some fool on Family Fortunes is asked to 'name a famous Arthur.' "Shakespeare." (That's a 'true say', as they say down Essex way, by the way). Stymied by a new mobile whose internet settings my Luddite mojo can't master and, with my chum's Blackberry's battery deader than a Monday night in Dartford, I'm in and out Park Lane's hotel doors like a £90-a-pop whore. "Do you know where Lanes (of London) is?" Nobody does. 20 minutes later, at Grosvenor House, a breakthrough. It's part of the same Marriott group apparently, only 'with not as many stars.' claims a staff member. This does not bode well. If the hotels of Mayfair were Premiership footie teams, I imagine Grosvenor House as Aston Villa - mid-table and a bit too full of Brummie businessmen in flammable tuxes for my comfort. Presently, we discover Lanes at the wrong end of Park Lane - the Primark end as I refer to it. All toffee tone, candlelit, leathery luxe (as a DFS customer unused to edgier five star sleepovers might put it), its drinks are more interesting than the decor. The big 'concept' is a selection of cocktails that introduce buzzier quarters such as Hackney and Dalston to tourists (although perhaps not the dozen Romanians we've just negotiated, begging in doorways outside). For Mayfair types whose idea of slumming it is W10, that postcode inspires amaretto, apple brandy and chai syrup idea, Portobello champagne punch (£13), and beetroot and gin West London ‘gimlet.’ Another success, if not an improvement on a straight vodkatini, is Grey Goose tahini martini: a nod to Edgware Road, oddly. Surely the Muslim mile is not exactly awash with alcohol? Decent beef sliders, samosas and vada paav in a bap, ceremoniously presented on a platter as if they were the head of John The Baptist and my name is Salome (which it might be if I ever decide to do drag), is essentially Whitechapel street food tweaked for the second most expensive square on the Monopoly board. Is Lanes an address I'll enter in my new phone? If I ever figure how to, maybe.

London Marriott Park Lane, 140 Park Lane, W1K 7AA 7647 5664 www.lanesoflondon.com

The Longroom, Clerkenwell

It must have taken them all of 5 seconds to come up with the name, but 'The Longroom' succintly sums up this new Smithfield pub. All sepia tone butch wood and tiles, its  Victorian warehouse vibe would work well as a location for a Whitechapel-esque whodunnit. Marooned in acres of space, the only punter in the place on a Sunday afternoon, I'd be spooked if the bartender were the spit of Jack The Ripper or Sweeney Todd. Reassuringly, the closest fictional reference I have for the small friendly Spanish chappie behind the counter is Manuel from Fawlty Towers. I can almost see the 'Que?" thought bubble form, cartoon comic book-like above his head, when I ask for a Virgin Mary - a January de-tox  must.  After a protracted pasa doble that is going nowhere, I finally seize the bull by the horns, suggesting I make the bloody thing myself. Smithfield's meat market (plus a quick raid on Gail's Bakery) is the larder for the principal ingredients of a terse menu's mainstay, salt beef on sourdough. Moist, tender, flaky, if slightly overpriced at £7.50, it's better than beer rarebit - more of an upmarket cheese toastie, of the sort whipped up by posh pished students around midnight. Soups - tomato or leek and potato- are similarly prosaic. No; the real stars here are the beers. Draughts include Meantime’s Yakima Red and ruby rich Highlands hottie, Black Isle Organic Porter. There's an interesting range of bottled brews  - Red Church Hackney Gold and Orchard Pig Charmer cider - and decent enough wines at won't-break-the-bank prices. Would I go back? If I lived or worked locally, yes...whenever I felt a sudden urge for a salt beef or Rubens sandwich. Having existed entirely on those - or pastrami offcuts when I was down to my last dollar as a sofa-surfing youth, living in squalor opposite Katz's Deli in Manhattan's then filthy-funky East Village, let me tell you; such occasions are few and far between.  

18- 20 John Street EC1M 7336 6099 www.thelongroompub.com

Apples and Pears, Whitechapel

At funky East End newbie, Apples & Pears - that's Cockney rhyming slang for hairy mares in too-tight flares or summat - rookie shakermaker gets the benefit of my pop-up martini masterclass after his effort, cribbed from a manual secreted behind the counter, turns out all Marti Pellow. That's Wet Wet Wet, not bone dry as requested. Housed in a former phone shop and imaginatively converted to a brief that likely read ‘Jack The Ripper meets Heidi in Chas (or Dave’s) auntie’s parlour’, this dinky dive ain’t half Mum & Dad; that’s ‘bad’ in local patois, I believe. With cocktail boy’s martinis now sorted, better rehearsed jobs such as R.C.R Kray - ‘a couple of rum ‘uns mixed up with Coke lime and spices’ - are far from criminal at £7.50.  Wines range from Petticoat Lane (sinkable reds from £12) to City Banker: Cristal is a snip £250, so treat yourself to a few bottles on the taxpayer, guys; you deserve it! Food is heavy on pie & mash, with the emphasis on ‘heavy’. Cunning! An evil steak and Stilton boulder leaves me too full to waddle off elsewhere. Downstairs, a cool cavern invites disco dancing and midnight mischief but I’m told Tower Hamlets has filed A&P’s late-night licence application under ‘red tape’. Perhaps they’re too caught up in ‘Hijabgate’, the controversy surrounding the ludicrous arches planned for Brick Lane?

Apples and Pears,  26 Osborn Street E1 7247 7717