Behind the doors of Soho: Part Two

The Experimental Cocktail Club

Between dumpling dives on Gerrard st

I am sometimes wary of the choices made by this particular friend. The week before had comprised of an outing to The Nordic Bar, where after spinning what will now forever be known as the "shot wheel of misery" I managed to drop call friend number 2's boyfriend to rant at him (for a reason now lost on me) before finding said friend slumped on the ground in the loos.

On this particular night friend number 2 and I were taking our steps towards Gerrard St gingerly, and with fully lined stomachs. 

We needn't have worried. The ECC is a London extension of the original Parisian cocktail club of the same title that hides behind another worn out looking doorway right in the heart of Soho. The doorman (who seems quite notorious after scanning some reviews), rudly claimed we couldn't enter without a booking, even after Friend Number 1 pointed out that she did last time. Just as we turned to walk away he called us back, gave us a look up and down and let us in. 

Excusing him the bar is beautiful, opulently dressed without being garish with a strong nod towards the prohibition era in the design of the bar. A very handsome barman served us cocktails that live up to the name, with my second choice of the St-Germain-des-Prés (a mixture of Hendrick's gin with elderflower liqueur, egg white, chilli, lime and cucumber) being my recommended choice. If you are a braver soul than I and choose the one with Budweiser and marshmallows I would love to hear about it.

At £11 a pop it isn't your Friday night local, but we left with Friend Number Two fully conscious, which is always a plus.

Behind the doors of Soho: Part One

In the last few weeks’ two separate friends took me to two separate unmarked doorways for drinks at “hidden” bars. I’m going to refuse to use the term speakeasy because, well, they're not. If I don’t feel like I’m about to be offered some cut-price cigarettes and slipped a number on my cocktail napkin before having my arm twisted behind me, my face slammed against a wall phone and threatened with a 32. Calibre digging into the small of my spine, well it’s just no dice.

Hidden bars or speakeasys (sigh) these days seem to refer to any bar placed behind an unmarked door. The feeling of being in-the-know is somewhat ruined by owners then needing to go around and shout about it in reviewer’s faces when they realise in a recession being a “secret” venue means being a very short-lived venue also.

Back to the point.

The New Evaristo Club

Nestled behind an old blue door on Greek St

I was brought here by a friend of mine who is infinity cooler than I am. Very kindly though he makes me feel more on a level by constantly tripping over his own feet. It’s the only way we have maintained friendship all these years.

Behind the unmarked door with paint peeling pathetically from the wood lies a corridor and a staircase you wouldn’t be surprised to pass your nan on. Beyond the sign in desk (a small nod at being an exclusive members bar, completely --- by the need only to sign your name and donate £2) is a basement bar. That's really it. It's a pretty comfortable basement bar that you might create in your own house if you were having one of those American sitcom moments.

The drinks are decent, but the menu is short. The room itself is laced with old furniture, wax table cloths and 1930's memorabilia.

Not exactly The Back Room of speakeasy fame, but it is less crowded than practically everywhere else on a Friday night.

Oh, and I failed to take a picture, so here is a picture my friend drew on my arm while we sipped whisky and ginger ale. He didn't have a red pen.