I’ve been a fan of the Three Sheets gang ever since a quiet drink at the Dalston original turned into a night spent crashing nearby parties. We were chucked out of one when the candles and cake arrived: belting out “Happy Birthday dear… stranger” ended up being rather a giveaway. “You’re out of line,” I remember a man saying. “But not out of tune,” my pal replied, giggling. Pavement has never been my favourite flavour.
Years ago, now. It was all very Dalston, so I didn’t expect the Venning brothers to bring their E8 thing to W1. And to be fair, they barely have: a once grungy Manette Street is now glossy, and it’s also on the wrong side of the Pillars of Hercules. This is Soho-lite; Soho without the E numbers. The crowd reflects it; they too are glossy, in that Instagram-filter-come-to-life way. You sense they won’t end up in Trisha’s or that place next to Bar Italia that gives me the jitters.
Still, fans of the original will be happy here, partly because everything looks much the same as the original, with the only concession to West End comfort seeming to be that they’ve added backs to the chairs. Drinks retain the same elegance of the original, too — the thing with the Vennings is, you drink what they mix. Don’t waste the place with your usual. This doesn’t mean everything is a hit — the Whiskey Dry felt a little weedy — but when it works, it works: the Rhubarb & Saké practically bounced with flavour, and the Cherry Americano was a hit too, with a little riff of plum that played through it.
These are light drinks, easy on the booze — not low-alcohol, but hardly stiffeners. Still, people were queuing, because it’s the place to be. The best bars are never just about the drinks.
“Right! Tradition dictates a crawl,” I said. “By which I mean one other bar, for one more cocktail.” It was still daylight; age is a monster. But we crossed the road to Wacky Wombat, run by Nico de Soto, who is bartender famous for something or other. “Can I help you?” said a receptionist with a plastic beard. Not the warmest welcome. We patiently explained the lunacy of having come to a bar for a drink. “I’ll ask,” he said sniffily, “to see if there’s any room.” Always a dead giveaway. “It’ll be empty,” I whispered to Twiggs. So it was.
We were led through a warren into a deserted bar, sat at nursery-height chairs, and ordered from cartoon menus. Empty Vegemite jars sat on the tables. “This’ll be great,” chirped the waiter, swishing his hair. “Yeah, I practise that.” He grinned. We cringed. “Why was he doing that?” winced Josh, afterwards. “Forget that,” said Twiggs, “Why does it smell like someone let a wet dog in?”
We escaped after one, never to return. The drinks? Terrific. But then, the best bars are never about that.
