Ah, Trisha’s, you’re thinking, Greek Street’s club at the bottom of a tumble of stairs. Christ, I’ve had some nights in there. Haven’t we all?
Trisha’s was having a bit of a night of it itself a couple of weeks back, when it re-opened after a forced closure. A neighbour had got the hump; there’d been a run-in with Westminster Council. Rumours emerged of rules not being adhered to — reports of wrong’uns on the smelling salts, that sort of thing.
It looked like Trisha’s might be lost forever, at which point friends of the place all put on a straight face and threw their hands up. Overcrowding, guv? Can’t say I noticed it. Drunkenness? You must be joking, officer. When the news broke, I heard someone in Gerry’s lament: “But everyone’s a swed’art in Trish’s place.”
“Uh-huh,” said the council, raising an eyebrow and sucking its teeth. Trish and son Danni Bergonzi both got an earful at the hearing. And granted, before, requirements for membership were what you might call lax — all anyone really seemed to need was a face. The Bergonzis promise things have changed, and are grateful for their second chances. Money’s been put into a new entry system, staff have been retrained, Sunday bests all round. Trisha’s is learning to toe the line. The naughty little boy of Soho is now a wise old rogue.
The behaviour may have improved, and the licensing laws are now being adhered to, but the good news is that little else has changed. Behaving needn’t mean settling down. The regular music nights go on. A cut-out of Maltese Falcon-era Humphrey Bogart still handles most of the security, glaring between the tip of his cigarette and the brim of his hat. It remains a trattoria-tableclothed basement of stories that can’t possibly be true, of fanciful scrapes and old East End acquaintances, of Soho in its heyday (the Fifties? The Eighties? Last week?). Gold teeth feature.
On its opening night, it was resolutely, faithfully old Soho — I’ve never seen so many Telly Savalas specs, nor heard so many men improbably claiming to be tailors. There is a romance to all this, a romance with slaps of aftershave, teasing charm, impeccable manners.
The bar has all sorts. They do proper pours of Pernod, milky-coloured glasses of memory erasure, and wines at £6. Some stick to beers, others take their vodka neat, no ice, no mixer, no bollocking about. The thing to have, I learnt, is a Danni Special: triple Jameson with a splash of cola. You’re getting the idea. It’s all different, sure, but it’s all the same. The truth of it is, you either love Trisha’s, or you haven’t been yet.
