Tapping The Admiral, Kentish Town

From the same team at The Pineapple, preserved after regulars including Rufus Sewell, Ken Stott and newsreader Jon Snow told developers where to stick their bulldozers, comes sister pub Tapping The Admiral. It's another good pub for the community-minded burghers of Kentish Town to savour. At first approach, you might suspect a local pub for local people in the same sinister sense as Tubbs and Edward’s gothic emporioum in The League of Gentlemen. Straying strangers are most welcome to try out the precious things within, CAMRA-accredited real ales. Choose from Butt’s, Redemption, Brodie’s and real perry such as Gwynt y Ddraig Two Trees (£3). As at The Pineapple, the food is Thai : try various tom yum from £3.50, noodle dishes from £6.50 and chicken, pork or beef or tofu phat kra phao stir fry and curries at £7.45. ‘Tapping the admiral’ is not a local euphemism in the same vein as 'bashing the bishop': they'll brook no wankers here. The phrase actually refers to old tars who would sneak a cheeky tot of brandy friom the barrel in which Nelson’s corpse was embalmed for the long sea voyage home after his death at the Battle of Trafalgar.  

77 Castle Road NW1 7267 6118 www.tappingtheadmiral.co.uk

The Merchant of Bishopsgate, The City

This new ‘freehouse and kitchen’ imagines itself ‘so good, you’ll want to miss your train.’ Its TOWIE-understudy customers seemingly concur. Preferring cask ales and £15 Lamberti Blush to Liverpool Street’s rush hour cattle trucks, they gossip about hair gel and ‘Mee-chelle’ being ‘well jel.’  Do ‘Great Cocktails!’ match that boast? ‘Dunno. They’re off, ‘ announces a waitress. ’People didn’t like them...or something.’ I order Sancerre from the Enomatic dispenser instead - frisky and fresh at £7.60 a glass. Parroting various (better) rivals’ design vernacular, The Merchant’s clichéd patter feels less fresh: trite shouty slogans as art; tinny tinnitus-y house muzak; canned Spam in a display of ‘heritage’ packaged goods; and from Downton Junction’s lost luggage office, battered Edwardian suitcases sprayed white hint at the old boat trains from Harwich to the Hook of Holland and exotic destinations beyond. On a table opposite, love’s young reem, Bill and Rikki from Billericay, chew on one another’s faces while I chew over a six-for-£20 ‘grazer’ selection that includes mini burger sliders (fair) smoked salmon in cheese scones (was that ‘stones’?) and risible, rubbery ‘blackpudding scotch egg’ (the dog’s chew toy minus the squeak). Suddenly, that Spam looks inviting. The prototype for a chain, The Merchant hopes to ‘revolutionise the station pub.’ I’ll stick with The Gilbert Scott at St.Pancras, thanks. 

Lower Concourse, Liverpool Street Station www.iamthemerchant.com  

Piano, Soho (CLOSED see BAR TITANIA)

These Chinatown premises have seen off a succession of swish cocktail lounges and even swishier gay bars including Geisha, an ill-fated short-lived oriental cocktail lounge aimed at older chaps looking for a bit of Gok, as far as I could tell when I visited. But Kensington's High Street's original Piano's second fiddle seems to be hitting the right notes with a theatrical crowd drawn to its effervescent brand of camp show tunes at the old joanna. Say Hello Dolly to cocktails from £9.50. White lady, Moscow mule, Singapore sling and sidecar are suitably retro rinses for roisterous rat pack singalongs. Owner Bazz Norton is a jazz pianist and ex-cruise ship crooner whose bona sense of humour belongs in a 1960s smut-com featuring Sid James and Hattie Jacques - Carry On Tinkling, perhaps.  Hence, ‘Pianist Envy’ and champagne cocktail, Piano Pick-me-up - an open invitation to a skint chorus boy on the make? A limited selection of wines from £4.50 and champagne from £8.50 a glass are available but eats are restricted to crisps and nuts, unless you pre-order buffet bites for parties of 10 or more. Punters range from elfin boys to a fabulous dame I took to be Ethel Merman until I was informed the curtain had finally fallen on her act. Taking her old hit if My Friends Could See Me Now to extremes, maybe the old trouper had herself stuffed to be wheeled around town by adoring fans? The idiosyncratic Piano is a fun night out in a jazz hands/ John Barrowman kind of way. Prepare to make new friends meet fellow closet Judy Garland fans and razzle dazzle 'em.

75 Charing Cross Road WC2H 0NE 7287 7699 www.pianosoho.com 

House of Tippler, East Dulwich

When Jo Brand branded Streatham ‘a sh**hole’, its ‘town centre manager’ (if not some residents who agreed with the comedian) blew a gasket. Was the mouthy old bint comparing SW16 unfavourably to her adopted Dulwich where chichi gift shops and dinky bars await Leftie luvvies fleeing grittier ‘hoods ? I’d be smug too if I had a House of Tippler in my manor. With its sleek 1960s Planet G Plan furniture (rescued from a Streatham semi whose owners aspire to wall-to-wall IKEA?) and a sprinkle of kitsch - dig the loos’ pole dancer wallpaper - Lordship Lane’s latest lounge could be in Notting Hill whose gilded classes, in turn, would deem Dulwich a dump... had they ever been there. Even in W11, you won’t better Tippler’s £7.50 ‘tails. Try classy (twisted) house Manhattan, Phony Negroni, Metro (thanks, guys!) or Tina: that’s a cognac and quail egg flip, not the Class A preference of some Streathamites. Imaginatively presented, owner Tim Oakley’s 3 for £10 ‘pinxtos’ - who knew Basque was big in the burbs? - include melty onglet with fat chips, fun mini hot dogs and peppered squid with ‘banga couda’(sic). If I were Jo, I’d park my big butt chez House of Tippler - or ‘HOT’ as I brand it - on a regular basis.  123 Lordship Lane, SE22 8HU 7998 4878 www.houseoftippler.com 

Q at Quilon, Westminster

At 20, I’d drink my age in pints; then, all swirly-eyed, park the dozen pakoras and fiery phaal curry that had seemed like a good idea at the local Traj Mahal on some poor hopeful lumber’s swirl-patterned Brentford Nylons sheets. Attractive. At Q at Quilon, Scottish Ceilidh lager or Indian Mongoose might appeal were I still a beer Hoover. As it is, sipping cocktails (two, max) such as tonight’s fine £8 tamarind margarita and cardamom martini better suits the Don Draper-debonair pose I like to think I’ve perfected over the years. Talking of Draper, couldn’t this bijou new lounge - all 1960s Madison Ave muted luxe with a hint of Hindu temple - be a set from Mad Men?  But in deepest SW1, you’re more likely to spot wadded American tourists and a Westminster bigwig (a stiff Whygras - that’s Indian single malt and grappa - might loosen up Baroness Warsi) than blue-sky thinker Shoreditch ad-lads. We pick at refreshingly un-starry Michelin-starred chef Sriram Aylur’s elegant tiffin - crispy fried silver fish, spiced shrimps and chilli yogurt chicken goujons - a seductive calling card for Kerala whose lighter style of Asian cooking he favours. I’ve never visited that Indian state but, give me a tenner for every time I’ve ended up in a right state at an Indian and I’ll fly there...first class.

41 Buckingham Gate SW1E 6AF www.quilon.co.uk 

Ruby's Dalston

Spelled out in letters on a cinema marquee of the type seen above 1960s flea-pits named, implausibly, The Savoy or The Ritz, a sign proclaims ‘Nothing To See Here.’ I beg to differ. Ruby’s, directly below, is well worth a butcher’s. Vertiginous old lino-covered stairs, lit red, form the seedy approach to what could be a knocking shop offering a free STD with purchase, or the type of 80s dodgy den frequented by Dirty Den, grim crims and bent coppers. Don’t brick it! Beyond Ruby’s irresistibly louche portal, lies the sweetest, friendliest, buzziest cellar imaginable. The only shooters you’ll find here are whisky chasers for your Shoreditch Blonde or Hoxton Stout - those are local ales, not gangsters’ bits of skirt, I should add. All peeling, distressed carmine and eau de nil plaster, retro public convenience-style glazed tiles, shonky mismatched furniture, Art Deco Alsatian dog bisque ornaments and 1960s branded drinks coasters I'm sorely tempted to nick, this engaging pit- formerly a Chinese takeaway - is a cracker. So too, the upbeat couple that owns it. Hit them up - not in a Reggie Kray way - for delish daiquiris, margaritas, Sipsmith martinis and £8 juleps served in coupes, cups, jars and milk bottles, and congratulate yourself for finding Dalston’s dishiest dive bar. The Savoy or The Ritz, it’s not, but Ruby’s is a class act in its own lovely lo-fi way. 

76 Stoke Newington Rd N16 

Hunter S, De Beauvoir Town

Its PR woman claims the launch of this new sister to The Hemingway in Hackney made the locals swoon during its soft launch. Blimey! Did delicate De Beauvoir Town damsels need to reach for the smelling salts, scared silly to find themselves confronted by half the four-legged cast of ITV’s Wild at Heart? Mounted on a big Windsor brown soupy safari park-cum-dining-room’s walls, is what appears to be an ad for Essex Road taxidermists, Get Stuffed - a gauche tableau no-longer-vivant that might be described as 'overkill.'  Dinner doesn’t exactly have me fainting with excitement. Wibbly yolk scotch egg beats a Thai beef salad reminiscent of the hangover cure you greedily wolf down, cold, when last night’s so-soy-salty takeaway is the only option in the fridge. Steep at £12.75, a decent burger patty merits better accessories than industrial chips, limp bun and tasteless tomato. At £18.50, prosaic Argentine merlot is the cheapest of just nine wines while Doom Bar and Sagres head the (better) beery offer. My designer chum digs the pub’s statement crystal chandelier - less so, its jazz joint, Art Deco meets dead fauna stance - ‘Tragidermy!’ ‘Was this named ‘Hunter S’ after gonzo journo Thompson, he of The Rum Diary? Or is it actually called “Hunters?”’ he wonders aloud as sad, shot roebuck, bear and buffalo stare back blankly. Service ranges from charming Charmaine to her sulky sidekick whose pouty snout would be next to be stuffed and hoist alongside Bambi’s late parents, were I in charge. Deer and Loathing in De Beauvoir?

194 Southgate Rd N1 7249 7191 www.thehunter-s.co.uk