As a snail-bothering Francophile who’s convinced fictional hell-raising alkie, Roger Sterling, is his daddy, the new bar at Bjorn van der Horst’s Clerkenwell nosherie, Eastside Inn - described as ‘Mad Men with a twist of Parisian understatement’ - should be right up my boulevard. Hmm. Negroni, that summery Italo-classic, acquits itself but Butterfly Martini is the Kelly Brook of cocktails: not up to the Cipriani (as in luxury Venetian hotel, not ball-boy, Danny). The Amélie, apparently, is the hottest thing since the Sex and the City girls ‘revamped’ the Cosmo. Note to PR lady: post-SATC 2, any association with those desiccated Dior bags spells ‘kiss of death’. ‘Death by dull decor’ is my verdict on a room that suggests a frequent flyer’s lounge circa Pan Am’s collapse. Fidgeting on a mean velvet tub chair, the only reason I’d ‘while away a lot of hours’ here - more PR fantasy - would be if fog shut the airport. Snacks, such as duck rillettes and roasted bone marrow, deserve better than their gratingly twee title, ‘appe”teasers”’ and as for the promised people watching... Boden bores and a Botoxy blonde? Through floor-to-ceiling windows, it’s the passers-by who are watching us. Martini whore I may be, but ogled like some 30 euro Amsterdam hooker? No sale!
40 St. John St EC1 7490 9230
