As anyone who’s jumped out of a plane and put on their parachute afterwards can’t tell you, doing things in the right order makes all the difference. I’ve been thinking about order since last week, and not because of Barbenheimer (who wants to spend five hours in a cinema, anyway?). It started when I met two pals who’d had a particularly dour meal. “Cheer us up,” they said. “I know just the place,” I said. “It’s called Murder Inc.”
No points for guessing it’s not exactly a sun-washed, candy-floss room with Carly Rae Jepsen on the stereo. The outside is sewage-sage — as attractive as it sounds — ornamented with a rust box stamped out with army-tag lettering reading “cocktails”. They are not, you gather, f***ing about. Down the stairs the air is rinsed with red neon light bleeding from behind a bar stacked high with a thousand-and-one curiosities. Favourite bottles can always be found.
