The Flowerpot, Kentish Town (CLOSED)

Reviewing bars, I get to visit all sorts. From the sublime - The Connaught whose twenty quid killer martinis I'd never have afforded as a student, to The Flowerpot in Kentish Town whose £2 Sambuca shots, I could have, had I ever actually wanted to. On balance, even back in those impecunious days, I’d probably have elected to neck neat turps with the local bums than frequent what is essentially a retread of grungy, junior muso joint, Bullet. Bleach? Mr Muscle? Whatever they swab the place down with, it smells like a spotty-rashy, trainer-trashy, teenage oik’s pit. Fragrant date winces and demands we leave - immediately! Made of sterner stuff, I insist on at least one drink - industrial strength cider. Suddenly, I’m all nostalgic for patchouli oil, Pot Noodle, Che Guevara posters, lava lamps, Hendrix and that other student bedsit sine qua non, the liberated rubber traffic cone. We park up on shonky, wipe-down banquette that’s in danger of self-destructing whenever either of us moves. The alternative is a grubby armchair, its foam guts spewing out like some fat sleb's during liposuction. The mere prospect of it sets me off on a different (bad) nostalgia trip: the night I caught crabs down Dover docks way. Behind the bar, skinny-jean Flowerpot man (more of a little weed) chomps cheesy crisps and scratches his armpits. Nice one petal!  On-stage, tonight’s ’free live music’, Natalie Macool, wails like a bereaved wifey at an Irish wake. Suddenly, I hate my job.

147 Kentish Town Rd NW1 7485 6040 http://flowerpotlondon.com  

Cigar and Cognac Garden at Duke's Hotel, St James's

I'm not much into brandy: fine name for a Playboy bunny but generally, I prefer my native Caledonia's McEau de vie. And, I stopped smoking some time ago. So brandy and cigars - Wot.Evah! Gardens, however, I do dig (if pottering around with terracotta pots and a rusting trowel on my sun-trap city balcon counts) and Duke's Hotel, I like because  a) it does a stellar martini b) it's not the effin' Ritz  and c) I was once entertained there by two mad old society bints, gin- raddled 60s chicks who made a bee-line for a younger, svelte me, fancying I was available for hire for the sort of afternoon romp Dempster's column thrived on. At Duke's new C and CG  there are hydrangea and potted shrubs, but ‘garden’ is pushing it. A tented, heated space for twenty intimates feels more like a hospitality lounge at a corporate summer bash- Henley, The Open or Wimbledon. That, or the patio furniture section at Homebase. Its finest Cubans cost more than a night with a Havana hoor and for £340, the price of  Bignon 1800 from a range of VIP cognacs and armagnacs, she'd throw in her kid sisters and the old man's 1957 Chevrolet convertible for good measure. In truth, it all looks a bit Hyacinth Bucket and some of its punters look like they are about to kick her namesake. That's bucket not bouquet by the way. Stick to Duke's main bar or sashay round to The Stafford, I say.

Melanzana, Battersea

 Is it a bar? is it a trattoria? Is it a deli? Well, it’s all three... and it’s also a find. I'm told there used to be a mad disco called Bennet's on Battersea Square. Under its glass dance floor, it boasted piranha fish ready to chew to stumps the feet of anyone who flunked the Noo Yawk Hustle. By the time I moved to SW11 (quickly realising my grave mistake and legging it back over the river, pronto) the hood was devoid of any interest beyond Ransome's Dock. But then came Montevetro with its millionnaire pads. Now, SW11's wadded new homies have various noshing ops on Battersea Square of which, Melenzana is by far their best option. This cute, rustic affair - formerly the dire Raven pub before it shot the crow - offers draught Peroni at £3.60 and a fair selection of Italian vino to drink in or to go.  Apperitivo hour -  that's around 7 pm local time - is when to rock up for an Americano. Otherwise, order oaky Sardinian red, Cannonau (£25.80); Nosiola, a fruit and nutty white from Italy’s alpine slopes; or crisp Prosecco at £5.50 per glass. Charming service delivers a range of honestly-priced, mostly well-executed simple recipes: strozzapreti with mussels and courgettes; rich gnocchi with Italian sausage in a tomato, spinach and mascarpone sauce; beef carpaccio and a dozen top notch pizzas. Only troppo al dente aubergine in a mixed grilled veg salad struck a bum note. An affordable range of antipasti, meats, cheeses and sauces from the deli counter is another magnet for busy Battersea bachelors and yummy mummys in a hurry.  

(adapted from my Square Meal review)

140 Westbridge Rd SW11 7228 5420 

Flemings, Mayfair

Whether for afternoon tea with cupcakes in its cosy-cute library, or a tête-à-tête over Taittinger - from a selection of fizz from £10 a flute - in its semi-secret intimate basement bar, splashy boutique hotel Flemings is a Mayfair address to know. With its seductively-lit, mirrored overwrought interior in lurid cerise and jade, we're in 1950's kitschy pot-boiler territory - the sort of film set you half expect Bette Davis to waft onto in a cloud of Sobranie smoke, wearing a beaded shantung silk number and an eye-patch and dripping diamonds and vitriol. Unflappable, twinkly-eyed service is part of the appeal; camp staff entertain us over knockout martinis and pink fizz fit for bubblehead blondes. Go ‘long and luscious’ with Eau de Poire (a pear Collins) or demand a ‘glamourous treat’, a Precious Jewel, perhaps (Tanqueray 10, fig liqueur, lavender bitters and lemon) from a drinks list that includes various martinis at £12 and pinot grigio at £22.50. Canapes of mini fishcakes, pea and mint risotto balls, bresaola wraps andveggie options encourage lingering in a clandestine, subterranean speakeasy that's far removed from the West End hustle (Up until the mid-1970s, Half Moon Street was home to Mayfair's rent boys).  Just don't tell the suits! (Abridged from my Square Meal review) 

8 -12 Half Moon St 7499 000 http://www.flemings-mayfair.co.uk/ 

Mustik, Finsbury (CLOSED)

If you’re anticipating Mustique, as in the late-Princess Margaret’s dream holiday destination, walk on by. That’s if you can squeeze past the ranks of off-duty suits smoking, texting and shivering their tits off by the potted palms on the pavement outside.  Formerly The Prophet -whose plunging prophet margins presumably did for it - Mustik is  a bar/ restaurant/ nightclub hybrid set to Latino beats. Its aim? To inject a shot of Trinidadian warmth and hospitality to the grey concrete canyons of EC2. I'm not sold. There's a nod to lurid, crazy tropical colour clash but, overall, the space feels more like a two-star package hotel in the Dominican Republic - or Doncaster, come to that - than a sun-kissed Tobago beach shack fit for the Glenconner clan, whose late 3rd Lord turned Mustique into Windsor-sur-mer. Among the Mr Boombastic cocktails, rio fuego (cachaça, lime, chili and passion fruit puree) and chiquita (a frozen rum, crème de banane and pineapple juice concoction) are Sunny Delight at £6.50. There are ranks of chrome spouts and wine from £16.50, but what encourages a repeat visit is a menu of Caribbean eats: patties, ackee and salt fish and fritters as bar bites, to braised oxtail with butter beans, stews, jerk or calypso fish and chicken and escoveitch via ‘rasta pasta’ and that well-known Carib classic, portobello mushroom burger with mozzarella and Med veg.  Surely some Mustake, there? 

Triton Court, 5 Worship St EC2 7330 0929 http://mustik.co.uk 

Shaka Zulu, Camden

You have to admire this new South African-themed pile for its pluck. Hopefully, springing somewhere the size of Lesotho on London, at a time when the bush tom-tom talks of enforced austerity, won’t end, like the Boer War, in defeat for Shaka’s Zulu nation. To bingo bongo beats, we navigate our way to the lounge bar at this ‘unique’ (that’s, for sure) and ‘classy’ (if you say so!) gastroplex that must be seen- once will do - to be believed. Wall-to-wall tribal carvings; ethnic prints; statuesque warriors a go-go:  this overwrought subterranean kingdom feels more Sun City than Camden. Short of Justin and Colin doing  the window displays for Loincloths-R-Us  to coincide with Gay Pride, Johannesburg, could it look more camp/ crap? Forget beads and trinkets here, the intrepid  explorer will need to part with nine and half of your English pounds to sample the Shaka shakers’ finest efforts. Pick of the ‘Zulu cocktails’ is angel face (African Mishale brandy, fig, lemon and apple juice), (Ketel) dawa, a native of Nairobi & vodka and kumquat thirst quencher, sufrica. Closer to home there's Orkney dig. What archaeology on rainswept islands off the north coast of Scotland has to do with Durban is anybody’s guess. Ten by the glass wines include Kloovenburg merlot at £7.50 while Namibia’s Windhoek spearheads the beer selection. In similarly ‘classy’ bars in Cape Town, £10 will get you three Bellinis. If this one lasts, I'll eat my vuvuzela:  but then that's pretty much what I said about the similarly bonkers Gilgamesh next door, so what do I know?.   

The Stables Market, Camden High St NW1 3376 9911 www.shaka-zulu.com/  

The Phene, Chelsea

When moribund boozer The Phene - George Best’s livers’ (yes, that's plural) sometime local - shut, it was presumed lost forever, destined to be turned into yet more desirable London living. Re-floated, with turbo-toff Lily Bourne at the helm, its gazillionaire neighbours seem happy enough to tolerate the brouhaha that is inevitable whenever Sloanes invade a pretty terrace garden. Perhaps a better class of braying sits easy on the ears? Indoors, to either side of a jolly bar, an agreeable mix of red banquette, knick-knacks and old tomes by-the-yard screeches ‘pub nouveau’ while upstairs, chess sets await players in a would-be rakish cocktail lounge-cum-parlour in plummy purple plush. An other room hosts a day-time deli-cum-caff, shut when I look in.  In the bar, Peroni heads the draughts and ciders include the excellent  Polgoon from Cornwall which reminds the blonde surf dudes of hols in Rock, no doubt. ‘Phene colada’ appears on a list of £8 cocktails but a negroni comes with orange juice and much chutzpah on the part of its maker who insists ‘this is the Italian way.’ (Oh, really?) From a sensible wine list, Picpoul de Pinet is right at £23 but dinner disappoints. Artichoke with lemon butter’s lemon seems to have gone AWOL while ham hock, sauce gribiche, is like chewing on a bland rubber band. Burger (comes with claggy chips while roasted sea bass is paired with a mushroom risotto whose salt levels whisk me back to my stock cube sucking days (a childhood fetish).  Puds are better if not entirely er, Phene. Still, the Sloanes seem pleased as , 'yah', Punch with their new Chelsea HQ.

9 Phene Street SW3 7352 3294 www.thephene.com