Martello Hall, Hackney

Replacing seen-better-days pub, The London Fields, this cafe/ breakfast/ diner spot aimed at hot-deskers and E8 slackers morphs into a party bar as the day wears on. Strategically distressed decor suggests a low-heeled hostelry circa Queen of the Hackney Empire,  Edwardian songbird Marie Lloyd. What’s to sing about at this mooted template for similar venues across the capital, are its local beers, Italian artisan wines on tap and a louche upstairs cocktail lounge. Many fixes depend on East London-produced booze, doctored with homemade tinctures, sherbets and cordials. Distilled on-site in small batches, Martello gin underpins a Bramble (£11) and a twisted G&T. We’re more for Mexican Negroni, Ginger Caipirinha Royale and miniatures to share - Punchy Cosmo for four at £20, for instance. Dissolute dandies drawn to disco DJ lates and live up and coming bands will flirt with the green fairy; absinthe from various producers drawn from Belle Époque fountains. Served in a groovy Brooklyn-style diner out back and in the ground floor bar, chow down on ‘humble comfort food’: Bologna-style dumplings (torta fritta); roasted squash and beetroot, ricotta, hazelnuts, beetroot pesto, mint and kale among ten edgy wood oven-fired pizza toppings, and meatballs, coppa, tomato, taleggio and oregano, king of the weekday po’boys. Weekend scran includes set £20 Sunday lunches and a £40 ‘Festa Italiana' blow-out.   

137 Mare Street E8 3RH 3889 6173 http://www.martellohall.com

MNKY HSE, Mayfair

For a taste of the Mayfair lifestyle at a fraction of the cost, book a space in the bar in the bowels of MNKY HSE (BYO vowels) -  a ‘new breed of dining experience’ that heroes modern Latin American cuisine. Set to a FNKY MNKY soundtrack that gets a lot lot louder as the evening progresses, this  glossy gaff recalls the sort of early Noughties NYC nightspot Naomi Campbell, trailing paparazzi in her wake, might have plagued while the Sex and the City ladies, mainlining martinis, held a wake for yet another failed relationship. Dress as Naomi or Carrie's mucker Samantha's MUCH younger sisters; MNKY HSE is a catwalk already strutted by 'porn heiress' India Rose James; Pips Taylor; Weegee wailer Talia Storm; Kyle De Vole (Rita Ora's stylist, apparently); Henry Conway (a party fixture dubbed "Mince Charming" by a sometime mate of mine) and male mannequin Harvey Newton-Hadyon - the sort of fluttery young things drawn, as moths to a Vapona Strip, to Mayfair boîtes such as this. Model muddles and mixes on a South of the Border tip include a coffee martini - made, Jalisco-style, with Jaral de Berrio Mezcal, mole bitters, dark chocolate and rose dust - and a fine £13 passion fruit spume-layered Negroni manqué that calls for Mezcal Gin Joven. Ron Millonario XO Reserva Especial fix, MNKY Business (top left) - a subtle, smoky rum old fashioned - is flamboyantly produced from a glass flask shrouded in mist and much hot air from its maker about “the concept.” Another signature is called Taking The Pisco: cue Ace of Spades Gold Brut Champagne, for those (rappers, footballers, hedgies, pretentious pricks) happy to drop £850 a bottle or £1,450 on a magnum of bling-bauble bubbles. For those with more sense than money, house (Argentine) white is yours for more modest £26. Baltic blondes with Rylan Clark glow-in-the-dark teeth -  veneereal disease is sweeping London - will be relieved: tasty, teeny taco-ettes and fiddly fishy bites won’t interfere with the contours of a body-con black dress... but they may batter a bloke's Barclaycard. 

10 Dover Street W1S 4LQ 3870 4880 www.mnky-hse.com

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

Il Tempo, Covent Garden

"Prendiamo un aperitivo!" Well, why not? But I'm cheesed off with bars that promote the noble northern Italian tradition, only to stiff you for the desiccated bruschetta and shotgun pellets masquerading as olives left largely untouched on your plate. Times are tough, but that's really not how it should work, ragazzi! At this wine bar/ cafe off St. Martin's Lane, the concept is properly upheld between 6pm and 8.30 pm when you order a birra, limonata, (£6) glass of Primitivo or a cocktail. On one end of a counter in a very well-lit room - a Milanese mate once told me his compatriots are deeply suspicious of any food served in the kind of mole-in-a-hole gloaming fashionable in London dining rooms - dishes arrive thick and fast as if to feed an army; an army that has failed to turn up (another Italian custom) by the time we leave, however. Perhaps it'S a slow night? Now, I was never much good at recalling what appeared on the Generation Game's conveyor belt - mostly because my fantasy 70's wish-list featured a gold Ford Capri and a £10,000 voucher to spend chez Yves Saint Laurent, not Carmen rollers, a hostess trolley and a Strimmer - but I do remember complimentary home-made gnocchi slathered in good pesto, swordfish and  tuna carpaccio, pumpkin puree bruschetta, spicy salami, addictive cheese puffs, breaded mushrooms, plump artichoke hearts and the sort of cuddly toy - in the form of Il Tempo's young owner - girls who have outgrown Ken might fancy playing with. Frustratingly, bell'uomo's promised classic Italian cocktails were limited: a wholesale absence of red vermouth preventing la famiglia Negroni from putting in an appearance. Open for breakfast, lunch and dinner (check out Twitpics @IlTempoCovent for inspiration), this blink-and-you'll-miss-it ‘little taste of Italy’ needs explanatory signage to help pull in locals unfamiliar with the notion of il aperitivo as it is understood south of Ascona. 
48 Chandos Place WC2 7240 4179 www.iltempo.co.uk

adapted from my review for www.squaremeal.co.uk

Birthdays/ Rita's Bar and Dining, Dalston

Forget events at Stratford. A 100-metre strip of Stoke Newington Road hosts another sport in which Britain reigns supreme. Street style. In the 2012 sartorial dash, the beardy gays, nu-Edwardian faux-gay fogeys and fash-forward Twiglets at deeply Dalston new-kid-on-the-block, Birthdays, are gold medal contenders. Housed in a nihilist post-industrial concrete shell of the type favoured by music video directors circa Joy Division, this joyous jumpin' joint is so utterly zeitgeist, it might be a branch of trend-chasing Ted Baker by this time next year. Get in now for £6 rinses - Hibiscus Margarita, Dark and Stormy and Negroni - or ice-cold Desperados courtesy of resident peripatetic pop-up Rita’s Bar and Dining whose more-addictive-than-crack beef patty melt (£5) is among the highs on a short menu of low rider  street chow that's sending foodie bloggers into Twitpic frenzy. At the bar, Edie Sedgwick reincarnated shows me the wellies she’s customising for Bestival, inquiring whether a) I also plan to attend and b) I’m here to see Cerebral Ballzy, a Brooklyn punk outfit (appaz), appearing tonight in the live music lounge/ pogo pit-cum-sauna downstairs. Like Carrie Bradshaw, checking out some Williamsburg hipster scene where 30 counts as dead, I get to thinking: ‘Have I had too many birthdays to be at Birthdays?'

33-35 Stoke Newington Rd N16 8BJ

http://birthdaysdalston.com  , www.ritasbaranddining.com

The Mayor of Scaredy Cat Town, Somewhere in London

By Chinese whisper, I hear of a speakeasy that goes by the unlikely name of The Mayor of Scaredy Cat Town. When I the phone number below, we’re told to turn up at a City fringe location and await further instruction. Memories of car parks off the M25 and gurning to ‘acieeed’ house at illegal raves come flooding back. Arriving at the appointed hour, we’re identified by Secret Greeter and escorted into a busy diner where all is not what it seems. My lips are sealed; but I’ll cryptically offer that the hidden entrance we’re whipped through when no one is watching, is the height of ‘cool.’  Beyond it, a ‘chill-out’ zone where Negroni and Lynchburg Leith Lemonade (the American classic laced with Scotch) are rustled up by a looker Models 1 might want to check out... if their scouts can find the place. The clandestine juke joint rocks to ballsy blues; notorious growler, Big Mama Thornton, ripping the throat out of Leiber and Stoller’s Hound Dog. No bigger than my sitting room, this deep bunker will survive nuclear Armageddon. I had hoped for unbridled debauchery and deeply dodgy behaviour but tonight’s tame collection of cockroaches look to have been rounded up at Starbucks and the lower echelons at Natwest HQ. There are some strange outfits too. Are Spam pink legs encased in bubblegum pink Lycra cycling shorts, worn under sheer tan tights with kitten heels, 'on-trend?' I consult a friend, the editor of Grazia. They are not, it transpires.  If the Mayor can rope in friskier katz and more stylish moggies and make his drinks portions a bit more generous - a £7.50 Dry Martini occupies less than half the glass it's served in - he’s in business. Bidden ‘to-de-loo’, we’re escorted out via yet another secret portal. Emerging from a dustbin, Top Cat-stylee,  to evade Officer Dibble, would have been an even better exit strategy.

For instructions, tel 020 7078 9633

The Folly, City

As its Southwark sister bar, The Refinery, didn’t exactly blow me away, my expectations of new City bar/ diner/ deli/ shop, The Folly, are low. At 500 covers, could it be folly to launch against the backdrop of ‘The Cuts? Perhaps, fingers crossed, the FTSE’s phoenix-like recovery explains why, on a bleak Tuesday night, it’s heaving with about-to-be-bonused-up middle management suits and suitesses. They lay into seafood platters and £7.50 ‘skinny’ cocktails like my Winter Negroni or Russian rose martini, at 80 Kcals, a gastric band-wearer’s prayer, answered. Arranged over two floors, this bar behemoth benefits from an intelligent lay-out, cosy seating groups, cacophony-reducing acoustics, smart use of texture and flattering lighting, pockets of gloom downstairs excepted. Mixing cute 1958 Californian motel with the sort of sub-Heals furnishings favoured by small town Come Dine With Me contestants with big city aspirations helps warm up two potentially cold, concrete hangars, although the wind whistling in through the front door needs to be sorted: one diner even wraps up in her pashmina - a pashmina, imagine! The 1990s back so soon!  Wines include much quaffable interest at sub- £20 and as well as daily specials (gurnard and linguine with pesto) dishes such as Asian(-ish) style crispy squid, boeuf bourguignon and steak sandwich from an over-extended global hits menu out-point a certain upmarket supermarket’s gourmet range, even if my bourguignon tasted more a la mode d'Oxford school run Mum than authentically Auxerre grande-mère. Says one manager, ‘What The Folly doesn’t want to be, is like one of our rivals' City venues Abacus, Agenda and Alibi.’ Happily, for the suits, it aint and if you're in the Square Mile, it would be folly not to drop in.

The Folly, 41 Gracechurch St EC3 0845 468 0102  www.thefollybar.co.uk