Three Sheets, Dalston

Set up by Mancunian brothers Noel and Max Venning, the latter a protégé of Tony Conigliaro, this austerely decorated, pint-sized lounge reminds me of Edward Hopper’s 1942 oil, Nighthawks. A few stool pigeons and and a couple of love birds are all it takes to fill the place. The bros’ well-judged drinks rely on the contents of a solitary shelve’s dialled-down supply. Short but long on interesting ideas, the cocktail list is refreshed each month according to season. Autumn's glory ( £8) comes in the shape of lightly floral Foraged Martini (pictured below): served wet with a tart edge, it calls for Beefeater gin, home-infused ‘leaf vermouth’ and a sprig of gypsophila. Other hits include a light take on classic gin job, French 75; the Vennings' recipe made with verjus, Moscato wine and orange flower carbonated and pre-batched. Pear And Pastis (it is what it says) is helped along by a slug of Reyka vodka and a hint of lemon. Plans B & C, should you be remotely interested, are a trio of Italian wines and Wiper and True IPA or Harbour Pils. The lovely local micro-bar is open in the daytime for coffee and cake or a hair of the dog should you have found yourself three sheets to the wind last night.

510b Kingsland Road E8 4AE www.threesheets-bar.com

Seymour's Parlour at Zetter Townhouse, Marylebone

(Step in! You'll like it.)

West End-based fans of The Zetter Townhouse need no longer cross town to enjoy its recherché rinses, as conceived by donnish walking cocktail compendium Tony Conigliaro (of 69 Colebrooke Row and Bar Termini http://tinyurl.com/nzkvwvb). Like the Clerkenwell original, the new Zetter Townhouse Marylebone boasts a likeable lounge bar. Gussied up as the Victorian parlour of the eponymous ‘wicked Uncle Seymour’ (a fictional adventurer whose convoluted backstory is as fanciful as Russell Sage’s knowingly twee décor), the double-sized drawing room is inspired by Sir John Soane’s Museum in Holborn. Appealingly presented - some in custom-made opaque ground glass stemware - the dozen house signatures here are the result of a collaboration between Conigliaro and head barman Claudio Perinelli, a loquacious Gentleman of Verona, voted Italy’s best barman at Daigeo’s 2014 World Class Awards. On my preview visit, six were available to sample including Turf Club, a grass-imbued Beefeater gin and Dubonnet martini, which also adds grape reduction and Peruvian bitters to the mix. Two-Penny Trash (powdered malts, rye whiskey and treacle) was a mildly medicinal mouthful, as challenging and and opinion-dividing as any similarly esoteric Conigliaro concoction. Bar bites include confit cherry tomatoes stuffed with cod brandade (a salt cod and olive oil emulsion), and wild mushroom raviolo with celeriac and a whiskey butter sauce. The food is all the work of Bruno Loubet, who has consulted on the menu, so expect full-on gastro fireworks when this Zetter launches fully in September.
28 - 30 Seymour Street W1H 7JB http://www.thezettertownhouse.com/marylebone
Taken from my August 2015 preview for www.squaremeal.co.uk

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

White Lyan, Hoxton

Hoxton Market is a gritty strip that, 15 minutes hence, will inevitably host Byron, SpaceNK and Little Waitrose. The catalyst for its poncification may prove to be the arrival of White Lyan, a liquid lounge anybody remotely interested in the art of the cocktail will beat a path to, as sure as 85% of Ireland legs it  to Lourdes (or is pushed there in a chair, that is, as I witnessed on my recent reccie). The cure-all waters dispensed at this shrine are courtesy of Ryan Chetiyawardana, something of a saint in the spirits world. After stints at Bramble in Edinburgh, Purl and Worship Street Whistling Shop in London, this award-winning cocktail barman, and consultant to numerous high-end clients, has opened his own place with fellow ex-Brambler Iain Griffiths - a chap who has come a long way from the sheep-shearer/shagger bars of his native Australian Outback. Replacing what was until recently the old Hoxton White Horse pub, White Lyan's interior is all Bauhaus black no-nonsense minimalism, putting the focus on its owners' craft. 'We've done away with ice and lemon' (or words to that effect) says Griffiths reaching for one of various small batch pre-mixes, hidden from view, in stark temperature controlled cabinets. No stirring, no shaking and, it goes without saying, definitely no flairing: the ethos here is closer to the intellectual approach of Tony Conigliaro, at whose 69 Colebrooke Row temple Ryan also once served. Reasonably priced drinks - such as  the house old fashioned (using scotch from a bottle whose interior has been pre-coated with layered beeswax), and 'white Guinness' (whisky, coconut, almond and ash from a syphon) are, in terms of content, unimpeachable. So why am I not gushing about this gaff like a girl giddy on gimlets? Call me old fashioned, but I want my old fashioned bespoke-made to order. As a piece of theatre, a pre-mixed pour - current industry in-thing or not - can't provide the frisson of excitement watching a sazerac created from scratch provides. White Lyan's pre-batched Moby Dick sazerac - the name refers to the spot of ambergris it contains - is a well-balanced kick ass beast - its garnish, limp. A rice paper strip float turned aqua from absinthe dripped onto it clings to the wall of a rocks glass like loo roll stuck to a toilet bowl. Cue flashback to  nightmarish past humiliation: the time two spiteful, deeply uncool school prefects - insanely jealous of my innate metrosexyfabulousness - jumped me in the bogs, washing out my immaculate Bryan Ferry brilliantined black quiff in one of the stinky pit's Armitage Shanks porcelain pans. My glittering career would go on to include styling Roxy Music for NME but one of my assailants, karma being karma, ended up a plumber, minted but up to his elbows in shite, I hear.  

153 Hoxton Street N1 6PJ 3011 1153 http://whitelyan.com 

The Carriage Bar at The Grain Store, King's Cross

Set in a former Victorian warehouse where "acieeeed!" warehouse parties were once the thing, the arrival of Bruno Loubet's Grain Store underscores the hood's relentless upward trajectory. From the haunt of shady old pimps and leathery prozzies, to Proenza Schouler bags and Prada shades drawn to Bruno's artfully arranged modern veggie mouthfuls on pristine white plates; that's King's Cross 2013. With dancing fountains outside, and an over-designed tricksy interior that is somewhere between a (very big branch) of Carluccio's and a Jamie's Italian speaking with a Gallic accent, The Grain Store is pure theatre. So too, the star of the show's supporting cast: a good-looking/quirky chorus line in jaunty neckerchiefs à la Pirates of Penzance;  a quaint German receptionist/ MC who is Joel Grey in Cabaret, the remake; a colourful camp maître d' who acts like he'll presently do a razzle dazzle 'em soft-shoe shuffle on the bar top; and the Carriage Bar's philosophical, phlegmatic Galician manager who rightly belongs in an old Buñuel film. As with some of that director's work, I'm not quite sure what to make of drinks directed by Loubet's consultant shaker, Tony Conigliaro. Several ideas have been designed with a specific dish in mind. Partnering courgette broad bean and prawn falafel, for example, is a singular sinus-tingling vodka mustard martini a must, or a must to avoid as Herman's Hermits sang it? I initially like it. After swig two, I'm less sure. As the novelty wears off, I grow more inclined towards my date's take:  "Ugh! Like swigging Colman's." Another sip and I'm in love again. Blowing hot and cold (literally in this case) about people is my default position. Cocktails? Rarely. I am, however, decidedly down with Tone's Beefeater ‘green’ martini. But pumpkin and maple syrup Bellini? Smoked paprika white wine? Butter and hay Champagne? Silver tip tea with a hint of cassis, meanwhile, comes on like the sort of mouthwash you'd be given at the dentist's were goody gum drops Gywnnie Paltrow minsitering to your molars. Presently, the penny drops. Could Bruno's brief have stipulated devising drinks so leftfield, a punter needs to try them several times over in order to form an opinion? If so, you've sure succeeded, Signor Conigliaro.

The Grain Store, Granary Square, 1-3 Stable Street N1C 4AB http://www.grainstore.com

 

69 Colebrooke Row, Islington

Dapper cocktailisto Tony Conigliaro has left Shochu Lounge and set up on his own down an Islington alleyway. Well, not quite on his own; 69 Colebrooke Row, it transpires, is a joint venture with one Camille Hobby-Linton, licensee of the nearby Charles Lamb. Oblivious to any connection I harrumph,‘Nice pub; shame about the service,’ inadvertently dissing his partner’s baby. Tony winces but stops short of lacing my Wink with arsenic. Wink, you say? One of mine host’s many inspired creations, this ginny take on the Sazerac is Tony’s considered choice when, shunning the provided list, this gaffe-prone winker challenges him to ‘surprise me!’ Equally typical of Conigliaro’s recherché mixology is No.5 Champagne Cocktail, its intrinsic sugar cube subtly perfumed with the signature notes of Chanel’s iconic scent - jasmine, ylang ylang, neroli, rose, sandalwood, vanilla & vetiver. Great minds think alike, it seems; but my teenage experiment with a bottle of tonic water and Dad’s highly alcoholic Eau Sauvage aftershave had some disturbing side-effects, so please don’t attempt this at home! More successful is Tone’s Targa Florio; an homage to a Dolce Vita-era Sicilian road race, the blood oranges, lemons and mandarins that grew wild along the cars’ route are combined with Merlet triple sec and Vichy Catalan water to make a stylish tipple fit for any Marcello Mastrioanni manqué. At just 35 covers, Tony’s miniscule bar is apparently inspired by films noirs and Tokyo’s inscrutable, Bladerunner-esque drinking dens. I’m getting ‘Chinese takeaway’ but such prosaic surroundings shift the focus onto his exceptional drinks. A contemporary of Conigliaro, Nick (Hawksmoor) Strangeway has created a quintet of choccy cocktails for Artisan du Chocolat. Willie Wonka doesn’t normally do it for me but at the chain’s fab new op art Bayswater branch, a bitter Cacao Martini turns out to be my idea of a sweetie: see for yourself for a fiver.

69 Colebrooke Row, N1 0754 528 593