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

Aqua Shard, London Bridge

(Huh? You want to see pictures? Go buy a drink and see for yourself, cheapskate!) 

"EEEEH! I can't wait for you to take me up the Shard" squeals excited highest-high-rise-in-town virgin. "That could be a line from Carry on Cruising had that camp caper been set in a Vauxhall orgy room," I say. But 31 stories up, across the lobby from Oblix - "the restaurant that nobody is raving about" as ES mag's restaurant critic assassinated it - assassins and orgy rooms are the vibe I'm getting at Aqua Shard - all 1990s Manhattan power-tower, hard-edged, shiny-sleek-and-angular. So darkly lit is it by night, I expect to rub Armani shoulders with Patrick Bateman among the assembled suits . "The barmen have complained they can't see properly" says a staffer peering at me in the gloaming. "Pay them in carrots? Issue Davy lamps?" I offer, helpfully. Of course, what Patrick really came for, is a vista that reminds him of his old stomping ground. Londoners haven't yet grown as blasé as New Yorkers about  ogling their city, spread out like Toytown, from on high. I still get a thrill seeing London from its new breed of  sky-lounges. I do, however manage to keep my cool and not  point excitedly and whoop, as one Shardy novice does tonight, "Look! I can just about make out my Nan's street in West Ham." Not that I had a 'Nan', let alone one unfortunate enough to live in that exotic burb. I am marvelling at a Lilliputian Tower Bridge far below, all the while being schmoozed in one ear by Aqua S's chatty Neapolitan bar manager, a simpatico sort who can shoot the breeze about shit other than drinks, thankfully. But after 30 minutes, my throat now as dry as manager Manuel's hometown in July, I'm going American Psycho for a drink. Fortunately, I have no axe to grind with Signor Chattisimo's martinis. These killers are well worth the wait. Aztec Tinez, despite its dubious name, is a fine Olmeco blanco and chocolate tea bitters twist on a martinez. Top call at £14, old times revival, works too - unlikely as Tanqueray 10, olive grappa, green walnut liqueur, Benedictine, Kümmel, Tio Pepe and artichoke sound as glass-mates.  I'd unreservedly urge you to take yourself  yourself up The Shard - I imagine Ann Summers has a suitable toy - if only for a rinse and a butcher's. As for a loo with a view; pointing Percy at the porcelain and peeing on Peckham? Talk about piss elegance! That's a term I'd also apply to our patchy Mod Brit dinner. Let's just leave it at... tricksy....and too many ingredients fighting for attention on one plate, maybe?   

Level 31The Shard, St.Thomas St SE1 9RY 7478 0540 www.aquashard   

BYOC, Covent Garden

It should, strictly speaking, be called BYOB. BYOC, U C,  is not licensed to sell booze, merely to mix cocktails for 'guests' who bring their own hooch and pay a £20 entry fee. Served in vintage stemware, cocktails are created by adding non-alcoholic ingredients and garnishes from a rickety drinks trolley. This squeaky vintage prop -  rescued from a 1950s Terence Rattigan play by the looks of it - is wheeled from end to end of the underground bunker by owner, dapper Dan Thomson. The manoeuvre takes all of two seconds. The premise at this nanoscale bar is not unlike the deal at London's supperclubs - only supper, at BYOC, is limited to charcuterie, cheese and fruit platter. The ambience is cosy, clubby and convivial and fellow guests are encouraged to pool alcoholic resources. This gives busy bee Thomson - or a capable stand-in when Dan's off tending bar at Milk and Honey -  scope to rustle up all manner of old- and new-fashioned honeyz. Secreted in the crepuscular cellar of a small juice bar, with its scratchy blues and my-man-done-me-wrong torch songs, BYOC feels closer to the real deal than any other London 'speakeasy' - with the exception of frisson-inducing genuinely underground enterprises I can't name here, lest I find a horse's head in my bed after the cops close them down on account of my indiscretion. Testimony to Danny boy's drinks, we extend our 2-hour table booking  to four. After the ninth variation on a classic Tanqueray 10 martini - the one that involved pepper, grapefruit bitters..... and Cillit Bang kitchen cleaner for all I care by this stage - the next drink I remember, is the following morning's emergency Berocca. Annihilation never felt so good. In fact, I plan to sit out Armageddon in this get-bombed shelter. Just me, Dan, the entire stock of Gerry's Soho liquor store,  and a dozen fellow cocktail-lovin' cockroaches.
28 Bedfordbury WC2 . No telephone. For reservations info, see www.byoc.co.uk/

Roux at the Pembury, Westminster

When their lengthy recess is not being interrupted by revolting peasants, our overlords are off poncing around villas in Chiantishire, building duck houses, or doing whatever MPs do in summer. Where they’re not, tonight, is at the new upstairs bar at Michel Roux Jnr’s restaurant opposite the Foreign Office. We drink alone, attentively ministered to by Liam, a Mark Ronson manqué in sharp black Mod whistle teamed, oddly, with bmi-baby-blue socks. Liam shakes sexy swallows from a list gratingly broken down into  ‘hors d’œuvres, plats principaux and désert.’ For around the cost of a bath plug and a two XXX movie rentals, how about  a ‘hang the calories!’ fit for our former gormless Labour Home Secretary, Jacqui Smith?  Bristol Million (Cuervo blanco tequila, spiced syrup, lime, banana and chocolate truffles) costs  £9.25. Me, I’m more of a William’s Tipple man (a Tanqueray 10, ginseng and bitters martini) served tonight with pork scratching popcorn (£2), char-grilled mini chorizo, and feta-stuffed peppers. I recall Marina O'Loughlin, in her METRO review of Rou,x describing its new bar as 'personality-free.'  She's not wrong. My date, a designer routinely consulted by smart money out to open starry watering holes, doesn't fancy it much either. We agree that top ‘tails deserve better than a palette of deep vein thrombosis tones, lumpen seating groups, flat lighting, naff vases, stereo Ikea-esque paper floor lamps, and tacky globe drinks cabinets. Is it an attempt at postmodern irony, or just rubbish taste? If Margaret Beckett did interior design…. or, come to that, David Blunkett and his guide dog. Either way, nice drinks, shame about the Shire Counties MP shite drawing room chic. But my readers must ultimately judge for themselves. To which end, a pic. 

Roux at the Pembury, RICS Great George Street, SW1P 3AD 7334 3737

http://rouxatparliamentsquare.co.uk/

Good Godfrey's, Aldwych

What dash was once cut at The Waldorf’s Palm Court, the place where London's Brilliantined rakes and derring-do dames learned to tango, was lost as the hotel, then synonymous with elegant living, faded into mediocrity and the beau monde deserted her. Part of a major makeover by Hilton, its new 1920’s-style lounge - named after former resident big band leader, Howard Godfrey - hopes to attract today’s generation of cocktail-mad young things. And, why not? Any list that includes well-executed revivals Martinez and pre-Prohibition-era pink Philadelphian, lovely Clover Club, deserves respect. Alas, house signatures underwhelm. Rosemary-anointed foamy flip, Spring Memories won’t spring to my mind in a hurry and prissy pink Refined Madam’s Tanqueray 10 is better in Waldorf-tini, a hoochie coochie that’ll show any punter a good time for £17. ‘Edible gold flake don’t come cheap, dearie!’ Served in a hip-flask, bourbon blast The Astor is a cute idea. Other ideas, such as art deco atomisers for perfumed finishing spritzes, reference rivals: The Dorchester, for example. Presided over by the capable Nelson, a Portugeezer who knows what to do with a shaker, a handsome illuminated onyx bar cuts it, but the room, all penumbral (listed) panelling, needs lighting tweaks for warmth and interest. Elsewhere, stylistic affectations such as an ivory tinkler’s straw boater (naff) and a bowler-hatted lanky doorman’s too-large uniform (Freddie ‘Parrot-Face’ Davies?) - amuse. Godfrey’s report card? Good: could be very good.   

Good Godfrey’s, Waldorf Hilton, Aldwych, WC2B 4DD 7836 2400

http://tinyurl.com/66qwppa

Barre Noire, Marylebone

If you're headed to nearby Locanda Locatelli , or should you otherwise inexplicably find yourself at Marble Arch, the oddly named Barre - as in French for helm, rod, witness box, or anything but ‘bar’ - is worth a detour for as good a cocktail as you’ll find in the vicinity. A clichéd, Noughties-style, ‘noir’ oval lounge dominated by a resinous back-lit bar/ barre plays host to groups of dazed and confused (as opposed to Dazed and Confused ) middle age Japanese salarymen, sons of The Emirates (as in Gucci-clad Arabs, not Arsenal players) and bored business people wishing they were anywhere else except stuck listening to fat Fritz from Freibourg droning on about the Geneva office while the perch uncomfortably on a squidgy leather cube north of Oxfordstrasse. The overall effect feels like cocktail hour inside a hollow Easter egg. Drinks acquit themselves - a Manhattan, perfect at £9.50 - and sweetly efficient staff know their onions enough to apologise for a lack of same when we order an off-menu Gibson. The suggested alternative, a Tanqueray Ten dry martini served with a twist, comes with a bowl of nuts and wasabi peas that is diligently replenished throughout our stay.
The Montcalm Hotel Nikko, 34 Gt Cumberland St. W1 7402 4288




www.montcalm.co.uk