Terrace Bar at The Chesterfield, Mayfair

Being asked to list my top 10 London hotel bars is a challenge I find almost as impossible as declaring my favourite Sinatra tracks; there are just so many classics to choose from. I love hotel bars. Old and new. Odd, then, that despite The Chesterfield Hotel having been around for longer than that other old Mayfair fixture, Nancy Dell Olio, I'd never set foot in it until the other week when its PR invited me to its Gin and Tonic Experience. I'm not a massive G and T man - better Tanqueray 10, No.3 or (if I'm lucky) Beefeater Crown Jewel (a no-longer produced, rare red letter day treat) in a bone dry martini - but the Terrace Bar's table-side tasting / tutorial has to be one of London's best value deals, a steal at £22. Knowledgable staff suggest a flight of three top notch gins, picked according to the guest’s palate, each paired with its ideal tonic water and a sprinkle of its key botanicals and spices to accentuate the gin’s DNA: Martin Miller’s and Mediterranean Fever Tree, served with strawberry and crushed black pepper,one particularly harmonious marriage. Moreover, the Gin and Tonic Experience's custom-made presentation set (pictured above) is exquisite. As for the room the tasting takes place in, The Terrace Bar is the sort of place I imagine Lucky Lucan might haunt had Scotland Yard's most wanted Lord not vanished without trace on a murky November night in 1974, wanted for murder. All forest greens, froufrou swags, butch dark woods and tobacco leather and polished barmen, suave in crisp white tuxes, The Terrace Bar epitomises Establishment elegance; its style harking back to The Chesterfield's creation after WWII, when the hotel was formed from three town houses, each rich in history. Sir William Harcourt, The (Liberal) Chancellor of the Exchequer that, in 1894, introduced death duties ("boo!") was one former inhabitant, as was William IV's bit-on-the-side, the actress Dorothea Jordan, who bore him ten illegitimate sprogs in as many years; one of whom was the great-great-great-great-grandmother of the current MP for Witney - David William Donald "Call me Dave" Cameron. (Insert your own joke about Tory bastards). When the miserly monarch had the cheek to suggest a reduction in his brood mare's allowance, the exasperated luvvie handed the tight git a playbill on which her caustic scribble: 'no refunds after the rising of the curtain.' Far from fuddy-duddy, the Terrace Bar's cracking cocktail list mixes modern innovation and reasonably priced classics in equal measure. Served in a jolly yellow earthenware ‘hive’ over honeycomb ice (pictured below), the latest buzz is a summery vodka, limoncello and lavender flower sour, sweetened with honey gathered from the hotel's rooftop apiary’s 40,000 bumblebees.  Snacks - crab cakes and piquant welsh rarebit (offered gratis) - are on-the-money. Silver service is slick; efficient staff super-sweet and attentive. A pianist at a baby grand plays standards. "There's A Small Hotel"....and it's just "Too Marvellous For Words" as Sinatra sang it.

35 Charles Street W1J 5EB 7491 2622 www.chesterfieldmayfair.com

Spiaggia, Fulham

Fulham's grimy, traffic-clogged, North End Road is a grim parade of pound shops, bookies, cash convertors and Kathy Burquas prodding market stall mangos , hoping to buy them for buttons, while the stallholders shoot them the BNP death stare. Now It's feared more locals will soon be reduced to haggling over the price of bruised fruit when better Dead Than Ed's bananas tax hits their 'mansions' - aka poky terraced houses. Bang goes the family holiday in Tuscany! Fulham's soon-to-be-more-squeezed-middle will have to make do with a little corner of Italy in the shape of a cutesy, white-washed, wood panelled shack opposite Waitrose (where they used to shop before their 4 x 4s satnavs were set to Lidl SW11). Tricked out in candy stripes and pastel gelati tones, Spiaggia is jolly as lolly-lickin' starlet La Lollobrigida (pictured) at a swingin' San Remo beach party not long after Mussolini was swinging in Milano - on a meat hook dangled from the roof of a petrol station. With impeccable timing, I Raggazzi della Spiaggia  (as the Beach Boys would have been called if they'd come from Cattolica not California) can look forward to sunshiny staff serving spritzes, negroni, rossini, bellini, vodka-limone sorbet and all manner of I-Ti tipples currently fashionable a Londra. Order an £8 cocktail (or vino and spumante from £19) and, at the appropriate hour, you'll be served aperitivi - free, not cheekily, sneakily slapped on your bill as at some greedy West End gaffs. Snackage includes tutti the usual suspects - crostini, piadini, arancini, Henry Mancini  - and trad grub like nonna knocked out in her Parma prime. Downstairs, in a dark kitsch playroom, there's big screen La Liga action featuring the peninsula's poutiest prima donnas, and a baby foot table for any budding Balotelli on your squad. Worryingly for mamma, there's also an inscrutable curtained cabana, wherein a large mattress: Randy di Rimini's office, the sort of horizontal accommodation nice Catholic girls should steer well clear of. I hope Spiaggia does well and doesn't end up as empty as Worthing beach on a wet bank holiday weekend: this tricky site has washed away a slew of bar/ diners in quick succession. Give it a go, Fulham! Fun, camp, kitsch, bonkers: it's gotta be a cheaper date than that other eccentric Italian import, Nancy dell'Olio.
461 - 465 North End Road SW6 1NZ 7610 2278 http://www.spiaggialondon.com 

Cartizze, Mayfair

Tucked away behind New Bond Street, Lancashire Court's busy bars and restaurants feed and water Bond Street's spendy Fendi folk. Part of a pedestrianised cobbled ramble, the picturesque enclave's main alleyway is flanked by cafe tables that are always taken. The vibe is Continental: a buzzy backstreet on the Ligurian Riviera, perhaps. The clientele at Mews of Mayfair and at its new sister bar, Cartizze, opposite, look like they'd be equally at home in Portofino, sipping Cartizze's Bellinis - rhubarb, blood orange, and sgroppino (made with limoncello sorbet and lemon verbena liqueur). Two intimate Italianate salons, expensively got up in inky tones and jet marble with flashes of bling, are served by a smart Art Deco-style bar. Crystal glasses; Cristal chilling expectantly in a Champagne-laden fridge: such details speak volumes about the venue's target clientele. Speaking at at such a volume, I can't but hear, my barfly neighbours are a 50-something pair that look like they might run a BMW franchise in High Barnet - her barnet, all expensive blonde low-lights tumbling on to her still-perky La Perla bosom; he, all cashmere socks, Colgate confidence, and smarmy Swiss Tony forecourt charm. They are much looking forward to yacht parties at the upcoming Monaco Grand Prix. Well, who isn't? It's been simply ages since I went eyeball-to-highball with the Ecclestone sisters. Ah, Monaco! I've had more fun in Frinton, frankly, than in that sterile playground of the rich -  more Crass-than-class-sur-mer. But then, I'm not the sort of acquisitive type that aspires to a Bugatti Veyron, Bulgari pink gold watches and a neo-Georgian mansion on the Bishop's Avenue; the sort of trappings that would make me instantly desirable to a brace of  Prada-plumed birds perched at a high table behind me, I suspect. I try barrel-aged negroni. Good enough, but difficult to drink when a narrow-rimmed tumbler is filled to the top with ice cubes that keep smacking you in the kisser. Sicilian gimlet and Milano Torino (a Talented Mr. Ripley rinse that combines Campari, Martini Rosso and soda) appeal, and fine fizz Cartizze (£45 a bottle) - the bar is named after the ne plus ultra of Prosecco vineyards - works with San Daniele-wrapped figs or Orkney scallops with pancetta in brioche from a selection of snacks. A Chivas Regal sour (£12) is flavoured with liquorice and certain bartenders' currently trendy friend, truffle oil. I'm less certain. It looks pretty but smacks of, well, truffle oil. All polished threads and bella figura, Cartizze isn't aimed at me. I imagine its  pseudo-sophisticated dolce vita pose will appeal to another oily Italian, Nancy Dell'Olio...or her younger sister.
4 Lancashire Court, W1S 1EY   www.cartizzebar.com  @cartizzebar

Il Bar at The Bulgari, Knightsbridge

Molto swanky new Italian hotel The Bulgari imagines Knightsbridge ‘the heart of London.’ If you’re Nancy Dell’Olio or the sort of Vuittoned-up vulgarian/ lucky sod (delete as appropriate) whose idea of B&B involves a £9,000 + per night suite of ‘peerless magnificence’, champagne, caviar and bathing your ‘arris in asses milk, it probably is. Yet, for just £13.50 for Three Herbs Julep or smoked rosemary and bergamot martini (sweet service and a navvy-sized platter of breads, garlic olives, stuffed peppers and charcuterie included), Plebs can briefly party in the emperor's new clothes, living la dolce vita at Il Bar. An imposing silver lid-off flying saucer-shaped vision, its ‘tenders know their cocktail onions. I order an À La Louisiane # 2. My request for a take on an overlooked New Orleans classic would see less savvy souls log on to howthehelltomakeit.com - answer: bourbon, Bénédictine, absinthe, bitters and sweet vermouth. Here, it's competently parried in a beat with ‘do you prefer Martini Rosso or Carpano Antica, sir?’ I’d score Il Bar higher but for the clenched-ass 90s chic barn it inhabits. Deadly dull. I half expect its dreary drapes to open as a Mafia capo’s gardenia-covered coffin trundles past to an Italian cover of My Way. Yep, if Prada did funeral parlours…... In the alley outside, a kiosk’s awning announces ‘lottery tickets / bus passes.’ After one drink, this EuroMillions  serial loser flashes his and boards a red number 74 home. I fancy Nancy could walk back to hers, although the world's most impossibly glamorous woman probably insists on being carried by liveried servants. 

Bulgari Hotel 171 Knightsbridge SW7 7151 1010 www.bulgarihotels.com 

Laylina Privée, Knightsbridge

Beauchamp Place is a strange place. Its main function in life, so far as I can discern, is to accommodate bonkers boutiques whose glitzy gear and froufrou frocks await the approval of a Petr Petrogarch's daughter or a Nancy Dell'Olio who'll parade them in Hello! when the magazine calls to photograph them in their gracious Central London home. At the thoroughfare's heart, lies San Lorenzo, an Italian restaurant perennially popular with the sort of stars (and/ or ex-girlfriends of Rod Stewart) who were popular when Nancy was a nipper (1971, she reckons). Into this Eurotrash timewarp mix, chuck paint-it-black basement bar-cum-nightclub Laylina Privée. Its look - dig the fish tank -  reminds me of the sort of dive girls in hot pants would lure punters into in Cattolica, circa early Easyjet, with the promise of a free bottle of what would transpire to be gut rot fizz. Nasti Spewmante indeed! But this is no clip joint. No siree! Laylina P sets its (Chanel) cap at a niche, riche clientele. That will be the Sunseeker set - as in habitués of high-end floating gin palaces (of one’s own or daddy’s), not the Falaraki massive. Why stoop to entry-level champagne (Moët) at £75 when there's Krug at £965 per magnum to be had?  Spirits by the bottle (obviously) range from £100 for Hennessey to a cool £550 for Chivas 25-year-old. 25-year-old willowy blondes in spray-on dresses, out hunting in pairs, might try lychee martini, tropic breeze or Layalina delight (Bulleit, Southern Comfort, Cointreau, peach purée and lemon). Busting moves to Beyoncé, I imagine their heads dream of attracting the attention of the sort of chap who will whisk them back to his Candy Brother penthouse pad opposite Harvey Nics for Krug, cocaine and carpet burns and treat them to a Beauchamp breakfast at Maroush Juice and a new frock come the morning. 

2 Beauchamp Place SW3 7581 4296 http://www.layalinaprivee.co.uk/

based on a review for www.squaremeal.co.uk