I go bar hopping in Soho. By Kate
On Friday night, I went to three bars. This is not even slightly usual but my cousins and I decided a while ago that it was something we were going to do. Two of us are now in the throes of divorce, so time must be made for keeping things cheerful. And, there was a bit of a Green & Blue triumph on the Thursday, which may finally mean that the future is truly bright so it was a celebration.
Finally it had been the most profoundly horrible week in areas unrelated to divorce, and who wouldn’t want to go to a whole menagerie of bars after that?
(Usually, I wouldn't. But there is a time for everything).
We met at Terroirs which is a pretty essential stop on a night out as it is almost the only place I know that serves alcohol I will contemplate drinking. It also has all the other elements which make up a good bar, in abundance. On this night I drank a glass of sparkling Ploussard which was completely sensational. It had the delicate perfume of so many of the best natural sparkling wines and a clean pink grapefruit bite that I am still hankering after. And I got to have avery good chat with the barman about the winemaker and the Jura region in general. That doesn’t happen in very many places.
After that we were revived and ready for Soho. China Town was next, to a bar upstairs,through an unmarked door. The door person was a slight, quite beautiful young lady who was funny, gracious and polite. This is an amazingly novel approach todoor management and one I can highly recommend to bar owners. It immediately makes you love a place. She was also incredibly good at her job so,as if by magic, we were quickly up narrow, rickety stairs while talking to another very sweet young lady who took our coats and ushered us through a narrow bar, all faded glamour and scalloped ceilings, and up again, to the very top without too much fuss at all. We had stepped through the looking glass and into a world both precisely of Soho and yet of something else entirely too. Golden rule of good bars everywhere: an instant creation of atmosphere is essential and this place had it in spades.
At the top, it grew more magical still. As we walked in, a table stood up to leave and so we slid almost immediately into seats. The bar waiter looked not unlike the fawn creature in the Chronicles of Narnia and although very helpful and smiley, was also quite harassed and so prone to outbursts of camp sniping. We did not hold this against him.
There were a lot of people wearing vintage clothes and some who most certainly weren’t; a wealth of beautiful woman and not very many similarly attractive men. One of the most attractive of the woman later seemed to have a fit of the vapours on a nearby sofa, with her friends flitting around her in a panicky swarm, still clutching their cocktails. There was a model in a remarkably small dress (she did have the legs for it) and her friend who was curvier but even more gorgeous and far less prone to outbursts of underwear (what there was of it) every time she moved. From our seats right behind the model, we were perfectly placed to witness these .
Tess and Jo ordered cocktails (this was a bar famous for such) and I asked for some water. Once ordering was done we settled ourselves and started to laugh. For what felt like hours. Partly, this was relief at being out and for a time putting all the stress firmly to one side but there was also auite a lot was actually deeply funny.
People are funny - that includes others and oneself - and if you can’t laugh (without being cruel), you can’t ever properly celebrate anything. There was a lot to talk about and while there were times when one or more of us were brought slightly closer to the opposite of laughter, mainly, my sides ached. Just before midnight, we were rather unceremoniously booted off our prime corner table because a booking had arrived. Fawn man by that stage had grown increasingly wild-eyed, so it seemed best not to argue.
Being jostled at the bar by friendsof the model was not much fun so we finished drinks and left. It was a fabulous bar though – great building, good music (the DJ was a lady with bright red ribbons in her hair who was precisely right - both in her choice of ribbons and of music) and the cocktails were seriously good. I had sips of Tessie’s and it had exactly the right combination of richness from the alcohol and a very small splash of something sweet, with the tang of lemon and lemon grass. It tasted fresh and was served in a perfectly clean, retro glass.
The sort of details that make me feel quietly happy. Someone is doing their job.
At this point I thought we were incredibly hard core - heading, past midnight, to our third bar. I haven't done that for at least a decade.
We were bound for Fitztrovia, past quite a few clubs. Some looked potentially interesting and some did not attract on any level. Them’s still clearly the breaks, although I don’t think I remember as many cool looking places when I lived near here years ago.
And wouldn’t you know it, the place we wanted to visit was closing up! This felt wrong on every single level but there it was. The helpful doorman suggested the Sanderson,just down the road, if we wanted to find somewhere open.
At no point in the planning of this evening did the Sanderson even begin to cross my radar but we were out, we had resolved to visit three bars and we were only streets away, so off we went. We passed a group of three youngish men who tried to pick us up by shouting, “Do you want to see my cock?”There’s no denying that this was a very direct approach but I wondered exactly how much, and what, one had to drink to imagine that such a line was a good idea; possibly even one which wouldresult in all of us simultaneouslyshrieking “Yes!”
It didn’t matter though. It made us laugh again, so completely in keeping with the spirit of the night.
The Sanderson was much as it had been the last time I was there seven or eight years ago. The same hard, white lines and high gloss. The people looked much the same, the music was definitely the same and the service was still slick, although possibly slightly less than it used to be.
We indulged ourselves in more cocktails and water around the long bar and much more people watching. There was a fairly large group who spent the entire time taking pictures of themselves and each other on their phones. No doubt they would enjoy the night in a few days time when it is plastered all over Facebook but I can’t help feeling that they might have enjoyed the experience more if they had paid it some attention at the time. There were two men (who were not there together) in almost identical, impeccably tailored suits and shirts. One looked utterly sharp. The other looked like a bit of a twit. A crucial lesson in dressing for your type right there at the bar.
We talked more seriously. Then we laughed some more. It was getting a bit blurry – my exhaustion was kicking in as were vodka cocktails. But it was still funny.
I suddenly remembered that it was in this very hotel, just outside on the decking that Simon and I had had the very first meetings about Green & Blue, all the way back in 2000 and 2001, when it was nothing at all except something I wanted to do more than anything else.
And here we were now. 10 years older in actual years. Several decades older in trouble and strife. Hopefully a million times wiser but who can say? At least we were managing to laughand even celebrate despite all the challenges.
I hope, more than I can begin to say, that this is a good omen. There certainly was something pleasingly cyclical in ending up in a place instrumental in the conception of Green & Blue; on a night when we were hopefully celebrating the next phase.
We saw it through till the bouncers started to ask people to leave. Two mothers of young children and one 60 to 80 hour week working woman. Medals all round, I think.
Brushing off the ranks of cars atthe entrance as too expensive we trudged through slushy rain to Oxford Street,there to do that running up and down thing that is inevitable when trying to hail a cab at almost 3am on a dismal early Saturday morning. The running came on top of heels, vodka and frequent stops for deep breaths from all the laughing.
Tess (who for some reason was not falling about laughing to the extent that the two divorcees were), had been darting around waving at bright yellow lights and her efforts soon paid off. For me it was a cab with a young, good looking driver who proceeded to flirt. That was far from the main intention ofthe evening but I can report that venturing out into the night time world as a newly single person is actually amazingly nerve-wracking, and to have someoneacknowledge the fact of your lipstick and show real interest is a very enjoyable boost.
So we flirted like mad. Atleast, I am pretty sure that was what was going on. John had a very broad South London accent and I didn’t get absolutely everything but (I was sober,remember), the gist of it was pretty clear. He did give my hand a little squeeze as I paid him and he said that hethought my single life would be just fine which was both very kind and oddly,hugely reassuring.
What more could you possibly wantfrom a night out?
Well, more sleep to be honest. I had to be up for work the next day and this was, predictably, tough. But the effects of laughing and a night off counterbalanced some of the tiredness, and Rebecca had chosen some cracking wines for the birthday party who had booked a tasting on Saturday night, so it could have been worse.
Now there’s a big week ahead and no more bar hopping planned at the end of it,but that is not a bad thing. I wouldn’t want to do it all the time. Good to know it is all still out there though. And very good to remind myself of how a fabulous bar works. It is something I am going to start thinking about even more in the near future.
