52 Pickup

Pocket Bar

2010-12-12T16:25:00.000+11:00

13 Burton St, Darlinghurst

OH MY GOD, WE MISSED YOU SO MUCH.
Let’s be honest, we’re slack tarts and we haven’t been keeping abreast of our drinking agenda. Frankly, we’ve been a bit slack keeping a-drink of our breasting agenda, too, but that’s not really information for here. What with trips to the Middle East, insane work and social schedules and basking in the novelty of drinking without critiquing every element, we lost sight of game. Eyes on the prize girls, rookie mistake! So we’re back and we’re happy to be here. Thanks for having us. If you need to be reminded of the aforementioned agenda, check it here. If you need to be reminded of the reason the internet is a scary and amazing place, an example is waiting for you here. Apologies in advance.

SWINGIN’ LIKE A GATE First stop back on the 52 Pickup train was Pocket Bar in Darlinghurst, with our friends and imbibing compadres Babs, Butters, Court and Mark, and what a stop it was. One of us had been there a number of times before (hint: martinis were consumed and swear-words were used), but for the other it was a spankin’ new experience. Pocket is a wee little place (that has its own little wee place, but more of that later) recognizable by its charmingly weathered, swirly metal gate at one end. We’re just going to put it out there: we love a gate. They’re like doors with holes in them.
The decor is what we’d describe as “grunge chic” – graffiti-esque Pop art splashed all over the walls, dark lounges your grandma could crochet comfortably in, a changing gallery of photographs, exposed industrial vents and a bit of nerdy science paraphernalia thrown in for good measure.

They also have lightbulbs.

We were instantly comfortable, huddled luxuriously on our lounges around our table at the rear end of the bar, surrounded by clusters of other mismatched, ornate furniture which thin out at the front of the room to make way for higher, stooled ledges and a clutch of seats at the bar. Lorin looked particularly relaxed (and uncharacteristically imposing) on her throne, whereas I was afforded a boys-eye view of a big pair of black and white boobs.

Like a queen with a boob-halo, is Lorin.

In fact, a good way to direct someone to this place would be to say “walk down Crown St from Oxford until you see a bunch of relaxed people drinking – if there’s boobs on the wall, you’re in the right place”. This might only be a problem if the person kept walking until William St, where I imagine wall-boobs are a little more commonplace.

YOUR SERVE, BATMAN. The mix of highbrow furniture and lowbrow decoration was pleasingly echoed in the service we received – casual, but attentive and top-notch. Pocket offers the lovely surprise of table service. An awesome trend that we are discovering on our little alcoholic odyssey is that cool and casual does not mean that service will be compromised. Our waitress, christened Faye but referred to on our bar bill as Batman, (hello, awesome) may be our new best friend. Sitting down, offering water, chatting with us and actually listening to what we wanted to drink, this woman was good people. The fact that the onesie playsuit she was wearing turned out in conversation to be just one of a large internationally-amassed collection didn’t hurt, neither – EVERYBODY LOVES A ONESIE. They’re like two pieces of clothing, but not. Genius.

Batman's service is so fast she's a blur. Nothing to do with photography skills. Cough.

Even when Batman twigged that we were writing a bar review (subtlety not being our strong point ever), she was entirely cool about it, and suggested drinks we should try to get a good idea of the bar’s strengths. She also asked us to ignore the spelling errors in the menu (which is being re-printed, apparently), which is a bit like asking Justin Bieber to not be a flicky-haired prat, but no harm done. Another staff member came over and offered us a take-home version of the otherwise leather-clad menu. Take-home representations of booze and boobs? Win. Score. Bonus. The drink menu was varied and top-notch, containing classics, slightly twisted classics, and some intriguing originals. There are a number of martini varieties like watermelon, rose petal and espresso, and more intriguing concoctions like the raspberry mojito or the Aperol sour. House spirits are a cut above the average, too – a fact proudly announced and rapidly consumed. With the quality of alcohol behind the bar, we think you’d have to be a blind amputee not to hit gold with that collection. And keep your guide dog away from the straw.
Food is also available at Pocket, and they’re best known for their crepes (amongst other smaller snacky things and good-value cheese platters), but we were there to drink. File that fact under ‘Surprises Tantamount To Finding Out Ricky Martin Is Gay’.

"What will it be, ladies?" Ricky Martin: "No thanks".

PEOPLE AND PEE-HOLES Clientele was a relaxing mix of mild hipsters, a handful of unexpected suits, after-work locals and one midget. There was a refreshing absence of bullshit or pompous pretence, as everyone just seemed to be concentrating on putting lovely things into their mouths and pushing pleasant conversation out of them. The bar filled up quickly, as is the way with Sydney’s recent flourish of smaller, more intimate venues, but happily there were enough toilets to cater for everyone. We’ll happily queue for tickets to see James Franco’s bottom, but not to hover our own over the porcelain facilities. The loos are unisex, and clustered around a curtained-off area, each cubicle being equipped with its own mirror and hand-basin, which we spastically love. The ability to complete one’s regular ablutions from start to finish in total privacy is a classy touch, lessened only marginally by the fact that one might have entered a cubicle in which the previous occupant has left the seat up. Unisex: 0. Checking you don’t have a bat in the cave without anyone seeing: 1.
Happily for you, I only took a shot of the ceiling in the toilets. You’re welcome.

Think yourself lucky I didn't turn the camera around.

BEAT ME DADDY, EIGHT TO THE BAR The music in Pocket was an eclectic mix, starting on the dubby side of life and moving swiftly and rapaciously through decades, skimming Hank Williams, Etta James, the Beach Boys, Kanye and Winehouse on its way past. We were impressed, because it was the clear aim of the music to not seem like it was trying to impress anyone. We were equally impressed with the fact that table numbers in this place are just playing cards on little stands. Cute much, unnecessary but deliciously quirky tiny detail?!

DRINKY DRINKY: LORIN When Batman asked what I would like and I said Vodka Dry, her immediate response was “with fresh lime, yeah?”. Tick. Although I didn’t get asked what kind of Vodka I would like, this bar does not stock crap produce so why ask? It was a good mix and the dry was ridiculously fresh... as fresh as soft drink can be I guess. I totally just rapped.

Yes you did, L-Dawg. Yes you did.

While the menu is awesome, I didn’t really know what I wanted for my second drink. I asked Batman if she had any suggestions and was met with the following questions: What types of alcohol do you like? Do you like it sweet or sour? Long or short?
She then thought for a while and came up with the El Diablo, a nice little mix of tequila, ginger beer, creme de cassis and half a lime. While quite strong on the tequila, it made me fuzzy and happy. It wasn’t on the menu, but the woman identified my needs and met them. I think that’s grounds for marriage.

I now pronounce you drink and wife.

DRINKY DRINKY: JO My standard gin and tonic was excellent – a good size, saliva-inducingly fresh, and with a generous slab of lime, squeezed like python’s prey.

Python, Jo. Not Cougar.

My first cocktail was a Mr Pink, ordered because of its gin base, interesting mix of ingredients, and my enduring affection for Steve Buscemi. With a double shot of Tanqueray, pink grapefruit juice, rosemary syrup, OJ bitter, lime and sparkling water, it was very tall, very tart and very generous. At first it was a little fruit-punch cordial for my taste, but then it slapped me on the epiglottis and left a sharp ginny afterglow.

I followed up with my most prominent fixation, a dirty gin martini. This. Place. Rocks. A Martini. Deep, cold, hazy, and with the best-tasting fat piggy olives in a long time. Slurp.

Before.

After.

Two of our companions were drinking wine, but Babs, in between taking some gorgeous photos for us (the ones we took ourselves are easy to pick – they’re the crap ones), ordered himself a 5 O’Clock Shadow, made of Hendricks gin, rose water, lemon juice and sugar syrup. Despite Court’s announcement that it “looked like a penis floating in cum” (please note that we’d already discussed ocular syphilis at this stage), it easily took the title of cocktail of the night. It was a game of two halves, full credit to the bar staff, but this was the winner on the day.

Thanks for making the penis comparison just a little more awkward, Babs.

While the coolness factor of the place can at times feel a bit forced, staff members named Batman and Catwoman put you at ease and make sure you’re looked after. Drinking here is like listening to an excellent symphony orchestra that has just one bassoon out of tune, but it’s a little gem of a pocket in the wall to which we will happily return.

We’re giving it three-and-three-quarter little playing cards on stands out of five.

Blu Bar

2010-07-23T15:36:00.003+10:00

36th Floor, Shangri-La Hotel, 176 Cumberland Street, The Rocks

If you’ve stumbled here by accident, you might want to click here first, to see what we’re doing. If you’ve stumbled here on purpose, you can wait for those other guys here. They won’t be long.

For this review, we enlisted the help of some experienced and enthusiastic drinking buddies – Babs, Threaders, Butters, Billo and Pepper. It’s often good to have a fresh perspective, even if it does mean fewer delicious peanuts per person. Most of us had been here before years ago, and remembered a high-class, whispered awe, sterling-silver-service experience. Unfortunately, like hairstyles, hundred-dollar bills and public tolerance for New Kids On The Block, some things change over time.

UP UP AND WA-HEY We’re not going to lie, this is a pretty classy venue. There’s something about entering a five star hotel, traveling 36 floors and arriving on top of a beautiful city - it kind of smacks you around the head and tells you to pay attention, albeit with a cashmere glove and a thank you note afterwards. This bar has one of the most ridiculous views of Sydney Harbour available. Fact. Located at the triple-nosebleed level of the Shangri-La hotel, Blu Bar is pretty much walls of glass with a bar inside.

Oh, so you wanted clear, non-blurry photos? Yeah, that's a shame.

Split into two sections, the first being the bar area which has long tables and a western view of the city, it also has a blue bar. I know, right? The second is the lounge area, with a view extending from Glebe to Cremorne Point and beyond, yet no bar. There is a tiny wee bar cart, though, and we’re currently accepting double-spaced typed submissions explaining why, when drinks are just waitered in from the other room.

Please explain. Also: Scotch, thanks.

Regardless, with ceiling high glass walls, this view is pretty gob-smacking. The pity is that only four tables really get to enjoy it - everyone else has to sit in the cheap seats and yet pay the same prices. That’s like going to a swingers party and then just shaking hands all night. Cough. Apparently.

This picture is here so you forget we mentioned swingers parties.

We were told earlier in the week that Blu Bar doesn’t take table bookings, so we gave our names to the affable lass at the door to be put on the waiting list for the lounge and found a table in the bar area. It was busy for a Thursday, and it was three quarters of an hour until we were able to move through to the more visually-spectacular lounge, but we completely understood that it’s harder to seat seven people than just two or three.

BAR BLING Luckily there was a massive menu to keep us occupied while we were waiting. Great mounds of Parton, this thing is long. And varied. And let’s be honest, even though it’s what you might expect from a fancy joint like this, a bit of a wank (except for the brilliant famous quotes written on each page, none of which we can remember – a little help, anyone?). The cocktail descriptions left a little to be desired- we understand that you want to sound amazing and offer top shelf products, but please note, not everyone that enters your bar is an alcoholic and will know the names of obscure and exotic elixirs off the top of their heads. Most of the drinks listed tacitly invite patrons to point at an ingredient and say to a staff member “Excuse me, but what the frig is this when it’s at home?”.
Hopefully, though, considering the staff aesthetics here, the response would be “The answer is in my pants”. Approaching the bar, we were greeted by an extremely attractive dread-locked bar tender who seemed to have been picked off a deserted island for our cocktail pleasures. Seriously, it was a little distracting. Even Threaders admitted that he’d be willing to get a bit curious with him, which is saying something. Adonis-like looks aside, it seems that all staff in this venue are more than happy to help you and chat with you about your day and discuss which kind of drink might be the perfect cleanser. To be completely honest, we were a little surprised at the casual nature of the service. Don’t get us wrong, we like feeling like we’re welcomed in such a nice establishment – an establishment that serves a $10,000 ‘Martini On The Rock’, that comes with a real diamond and a hotel room, for serious – it’s just that the dreadlocks and how-ya-goin’ service was a little incongruous. So too for the ‘Toasties’ listed in the food section of the menu. Call us crazy, but when you’re spending over $20 for a “toastie” it’s not so casual. I’ll have a toastie and an 8-carat diamond, thanks. Y’know – since you’re fresh out of Chiko Rolls and sapphires.

BOOM-CHIKA-WOW-I-GUESS The venue is described as a New York- inspired bar exuding urban sophistication, but other than the blue light box in the bar, the decor to us seemed a little bland and, well, hotel-like. Possibly even airport-transit-lounge-esque, except at this height you’re a bit closer to the aeroplanes. The music, too, wasn’t what you’d expect – bassy dub followed by The Jackson Five. It’s eclecticism gone crazy, we tells ya! Other guests were generally your well-groomed suited set, or non-Contiki tourists on the marginally posher side of life. They didn’t really catch our attention until Butters said “What about the clientele? That chick just passed out!”, pointing to the table next to us. And indeed she had. One too many glasses of bubbles, perhaps, maybe vertigo. For the most part, though, Threaders described our co-drinkers as ‘the kind of people you’d see waiting to go into a David Lynch movie”. Threaders had just finished a massive White Russian at this point, though.

THEM’S SOME LONG PIPES, MAMA The bathrooms are standard issue ritzy hotel. Red/brown marble, gold finishings, pot plants, thick hand towels. Nice. But yawn. Where’s our free perfume samples, bitches? Come on.

DRINKY DRINKY: LORIN Drink one: Well, I wasn’t asked what kind of Vodka I wanted in my drink. I don’t want to sound like a spoilt brat, but I take this shit seriously and if you’ve got four different vodkas lined up, I’d like to be asked which one I want. I may be short, but I have taste buds too... OK, maybe I’m taking this a little more personally than I should. Anyway, it was a good ratio of Vodka to dry, but it was a bit flat. The dry, not my enthusiasm. The garnish was lime, so tick there. For $11.50 for a spirit, it’s a bit expensive, but I had come prepared for such events.

This drink is actually four storeys tall. It just looks smaller because it's at the Shangri La.

Drink two: After perusing the menu I ordered myself a Cucumber Cooler consisting of Hendricks gin, apple liqueur, elderflower cordial, cucumber, granny smith apples, mint, a hint of lemon juice and a dash of soda. This description got me a little happy. Anyone who knows me well knows that I love a cucumber, it is my favourite of the fruits that you don’t automatically think of as a fruit. However, the happiness didn’t last as long as I was hoping, in the words of my esteemed colleague Threaders, “it tastes like a cucumber flavoured sports drink”. The menu description made me dream of amazing flavours, but instead I was rather bored.

Lorin generally shows boredom by smiling.

DRINKY DRINKY: JO My gin & tonic was served in a tall, voluminous glass with the perfect amount of ice and a lime garnish, so it certainly looked like value for money. I could barely taste the gin, though, and the whole thing left me more than a little on the meh side of life. Once again, Blu Bar excelled in giving the impression that you were about to experience something spectacular, and then under-delivering - a lot like Christina Aguilera’s career.

Anyone not drooling right now is fired.

When faced with the daunting task of choosing from the eight-thousand page cocktail menu, I took the easy way out and ordered my new stand-in boyfriend, a dirty gin martini. The bargirl chilled the glass well and asked for my gin preference (Tanqueray), so the resulting drink was cold and huge, with three robust olives and wonderful balance. It had the perfect amount of ‘dirty’, which is what I hope people say about me behind my back. The only problem with large martinis (and the very idea that there could be any problem at all with them is astounding) is that they don’t stay cold. Cold is the fourth most important ingredient of a martini.

Alright, stop. Collaborate and listen.

Lastly, my favourite rant – if you’re going to serve me unpitted olives (which you totally and utterly should), give me somewhere to put the pits. They’ve been in my mouth. Don’t get me wrong – my mouth is awesome – but unless you want my (awesome) saliva on your furniture, I’m gonna need more than a coaster. Fucking good peanuts, though.

I'm not drunk, but I can totally see it from here.

DRINKY DRINKY: THEM We asked our truly amazingly stunningly attractive companions what they were drinking, and also to sum up their Blu Bar experience in a few words.
Threaders was impressed that he was asked how much milk he wanted in his White Russian, and also with the final result. His bar summary: “Nice but not awesome – I do feel a little bum-raped”. We assume and hope that this was in reference to the prices.

More bear than man. In a good way.

Babs started with a Tiki Tac Toe (Rum, pineapple, vanilla, peach) and liked it, although when we tried it (reviewer's privilege, see) we felt it tasted like a welcome-to-Fiji fruit cocktail. He was singularly obsessed with the idea of being able to see the city from the toilet, though, so his disappointed summary? “No poo with a view”.

Play your cards right, and Babs' jeans could be weirdly blending in with your couch at home, ladies.

Butters had a… a drink. In a glass. With a garnish. Crap, Butters, what did you have?! Either way, she summarised “I can’t get past the girl who fell over”.

And we can't get past your awesome boots.

Billo tried a few cocktails, the first of which was an Aztec Conquest, with DON JULIO!! Tequila (we made a pact with friends recently that the words ‘DON JULIO!! must always be shouted with a Spanish accent), pomegranate liqueur, Tuaca (vanilla citrus liqueur), apple juice, lemon juice, agave syrup and rosemary. Phew. He was pleased that the rosemary sprig made him feel like he was doing his bit for the Diggers, but his assessment: “If it wasn’t for the company and the view, it’d be just another bar”.

Not pictured: the Anzac Day Parade.

Pepper, who only just claimed that nickname on the night, started with A Pear Of Sidecars, made with Grey Goose vodka, Remy Martin cognac, pear liqueur, lemon and sugar. She thought the lemon in the drink was a little overpowering, and that the bar gave a good first impression. Then she said something that she claimed might have been a little harsh, but I’m sure there are some very fine leagues club cocktail bars out there.

If you can find someone classier than this, we will give you five thousand dollars.

There is a massive elephant in the room, and fuck it, lets tackle it around the ankles. This bar is great, but you take away the view and there is not much left to admire. They do things well, but so do a lot of other bars in Sydney. For the amount of money that you spend, unless you get a table with the money shot, we think it’s probably better spent somewhere else. It was voted AHA bar of 2010 and that’s exactly what it is, a hotel bar.

We’re giving Blu Bar three big glass walls out of five. Only just.

The Basement

2010-06-29T16:50:00.000+10:00

7 Macquarie Place, Sydney

No idea what we think we’re doing? Click here to fill in the blanks. For Blankety Blanks (and a disturbingly young Mark Holden), click here.

A mate’s band, The Little Stevies, was playing at The Basement last Friday night, and the stars aligned when we looked through our deck of Bar Secrets cards and found the old darling represented.
Awww. The Basement. We’ve both worked in music in some capacity for the last three thousand years, so we have a soft spot for this joint. If you live in Sydney and have been seeing live music for any of the last forty years, there’s a good chance you’ve ended up in this venue at some point. The Basement is all about the music, which is lucky, really, as the toilets are completely mank. But more about that later.

For those about to rock, we salute you. And also drink you a little bit.

You can always find at least one of us near a crotch.

GOT WOOD Located on the cusp of the CBD and Circular Quay, The Basement is just that, a basement. The main entrance used to be on Reiby Place, a laneway that became exponentially harder to find the more schooners you’d downed previously. These days, entry is via the more user-friendly Macquarie Place, with the addition of outdoor seating and a strangely incongruous upstairs bar. For those familiar with the existing Basement, you know that it’s dark, wooden, band-poster-riddled and awesome, but for some reason this homely decor doesn’t reach street level. The top bar is quite a contrast - light, open, sleek and minimal.

Also, sometimes the art emits an eerie glow.

MOVE ALONG, PLEASE. Not being able to find a seat upstairs, we wandered down the ramp to the main downstairs bar, which is like boarding a submarine bound for rock (and jazz and soul and folk-country-fuzz-fusion). The first outstandingly polite and friendly staff member started his comely banter by telling us we’d just missed happy hour. Way to politely and endearingly deflate a girl, man. After our first (full-priced at $7.50) drink and a joyous appreciation of The Little Stevies’ soundcheck, another outstandingly polite and friendly staff member asked us to move into the side bar known as The Green Room, presumably so they could set the main room up for the gig. After a while, we decided to move upstairs to round out our review, where we were told by a third outstandingly polite and friendly staff member that if we were here for the show, we could move downstairs if we wanted to. Our bottoms were slutty that night, dear friends.

This is just the soundcheck. For the actual gig, he turns around.

THE GREEN ROOM This is a pleasant, woody space with two main features – a warm, close-quarters bar and a pool table. Consequently, it reminded us of our university years, such was our fierce dedication to the book-learnin’ arts. This is a quieter space than the main room, so it’s great for a pre-gig feed or to get to know the skinny-jeaned scruffy gent you’ve just been eyeing off between sets, but its main purpose is to remind us of Van Gogh paintings.

The Night Cafe in the Place Lamartine in Arles

The pool table bit at the Basement. UNCANNY.

UPSTAIRS We understand the need to diversify and perhaps attract patrons other than just music punters, which is how we explained the completely different décor and atmosphere in the upstairs bar to ourselves. Maybe they want to create a nice little cocktail bar that stands alone from the main room? Well that’s all fine and good, but THEY DON’T SERVE COCKTAILS. When the (outstandingly polite and friendly) barman said they didn’t serve cocktails upstairs, he was greeted with two very confused and hurt facial expressions. This is the part of the venue that screams cocktails. It makes no sense! If you’re going to just serve beer and basics, at least make it look the part so our expectations are met. After collecting ourselves, it was downstairs to the heart of the beast, and what a beast it is.

DOWNSTAIRS The thing we love most about the basement is that there are bill posters for bands covering every inch of the walls (and some parts of the ceiling), making it impossible to tell what colour the walls actually are. It’s like the history of music did a glorious wet-burp in black, white and go cat go. You immediately feel in the mood to see some music, and with not a window in sight, low ceilings and dim lighting, you instantly feel like you are in some bar in New York and someone should jump on the grand piano and play something dirty and... maybe that’s just us. The room is large and set up for patrons wishing to partake in dinner and a show, and anyone who knows us understands that we get a little silly over dinner and a show. Especially the dinner and show part!

YOU GLORIOUS BASTARDS The staff in this place are second to none, and perhaps this is one of the differences between a bar and a music venue. We don’t think we’ve ever seen a place with such a consistently genuine and heart-warming crew manning and womaning the decks. Patrons vary depending on who’s on the stage, but being mostly a music crowd, they’re often interesting, vaguely alternative and less likely than just about any other bunch of drunk people to cause trouble or get nasty (please see special subjects under the headings Licensing Laws, The Hoey, The Annandale, The Tote, et cetera ad nauseam). Right on.

CHOONS Wanna know what the music’s like at The Basement? Read your ticket, idiot. Sheesh. Do we gotta do everything? You can see performers at The Basement that you can’t see anywhere else, and it remains an absolute staple of the Sydney music scene, sometimes nostalgic, sometimes avant-garde. Bless it. Bless it a lot. Unfortunately, before the show started, a Sting album was playing over the sound system. We wouldn’t have noticed that it was a Sting CD, so unobtrusive was the volume, except that every two minutes or so, the thing skipped like crazy. You know what’s worse than listening to a whole Sting CD? Listening to one that goes “I’m an Englishman in New YOR-YOR-YOR-YOR-YOR-YOR-YOR-YOR-YOR-YOR-YOR-YOR….”.

THROUGH THAT DOOR, JUST FOLLOW YOUR NOSE The toilets are not good. It’s a bit like someone cut the toilets out of a bowlo or a rural airport and transferred them here. Except of course, we’re not sure that bowlo or country airport toilets have vending machines dispensing Wipe-On Sex Appeal in them.

Yeah. That's called "sweat" where we're from.

Beige, ecru and off-white, the facilities are badly in need of a renovation, even taking our low standards into account. There are two cubicles in the Ladies, which for a venue that has live entertainment with gaps in between sets is like booking a stall at a Queuing Expo. You put two hundred people in a room with a show and some drinks, and you have at least fifty people waiting for a gap between sets to go to the toilet. It’s science.

AND THE NOMS ARE… There’s both fancy-schmancy meals and classic pubby-bistro meals available at The Basement – the former from 7:30pm, usually with a ‘dinner and show’ ticket, and the latter available most of the time. We opted for The Basement Burger and The Basement BLT from the Bistro menu, because we dig consistency, alliteration, and big fat chips.

B is also for Bacon and Blocked Artieries.

Delicious, massive, and we’d better add another kilometre to our jog next week. The only odd thing was that once you’ve ordered your Bistro food at the bar, you’re asked to check back in ten minutes to see if it’s ready and pick it up. This can mean more than one trip to the bar, and the first time we’ve ever missed those buzzy little light-up spaceships you get in other bars to let you know when your food’s ready.

Jeff Duff is still waiting for his Nachos.

The cocktail menu is short but sweet and fancifully named, sticking with a musical theme. You can get a Sinatra, Stevie’s Wonder, Coltrane Caprioska, Raspy Ella, Simone’s Sling or a Loneliest Monk. We took pity on the last one and almost ordered it, because LOOK! It’s ronery. Tricky little cocktails, taking advantage of our fondness for alcohol and kitten-rescuing. Manipulators!

Cocktail menu, AKA Saucy Minx Temptress

DRINKY DRINKY: LORIN Vodka Dry- I would just like to stress that my drink was served in a small tumbler. SMALL TUMBLER. I’d love to say that The Basement obviously reads our blog, but let’s be honest, they probably just know that dry = serious drinker, allow for easier access.

I'm happy because I have a small tumbler, and because the lights are squiggly.

Great mix and ratio of alcohol to dry. I wasn’t asked what Vodka I wanted, but in that sort of musical environment I’d almost accept the staff to tell me to shut up, and drink what I’m given. Rock. The staff were sickeningly nice so that would never happen.

Cocktail: While trying to pretend I was in New York I went with the obvious choice of a Sinatra. With lime and strawberries muddled with ginger and sugar, then shaken with Vodka, Creme de Gingembre and Framboise, it is lastly topped with Cascade Ginger beer. This was quite a good little cocktail, and although it surprisingly didn’t really taste much of ginger at all, it was still really smooth to drink, not too sweet and for $16 not a bad cocktail at all.

Frank's the one on the left.

DRINKY DRINKY: JO Gin & Tonic: My standard drink was crisp, as it should be, and too small, as all the good ones are. The barman asked me for my garnish preference, and then squeezed a fat wedge of lime into the gloriously ginny drink. Sip. Smack. Slap. Lovely.

I look surprised, because it's nearly gone.

For my cocktail, I had me a Basement Mojito – muddled lime, brown sugar, rum, mint and soda. A gorgeous fat glass, with not quite enough mint but certainly enough rum. After two sips, I found that the sharper lime notes gave way to the mel - HELLO I’M DRUNK. Cool, refreshing, and long lasting – exactly how I like my cocktails, ice creams and coastal breezes.

I look serious, because I'm about to fall over.

While we love the basement for the music venue it is, as a bar that is to be compared with every other in our pack of cards, it’s not quite up to par. But to be honest, we don’t really care. We’ll be back, just as we have been time and time again. There’s nothing quite like The Basement.

Cheers, The Basement. Cheers heaps.

We’re giving The Basement two and a half bill posters out of five.

.

Zeta

2010-06-15T19:11:00.000+10:00

Level 4, Hilton Hotel, 488 George St Sydney

Need to get up to speed? Click here. Feel the need, the need for speed? Click here.

We should start by telling you a couple of things:

1. Although we’ve both been here before, neither of us have ever arrived here sober before this visit. We’ve already been, how do we put it... alcoholically stimulated in the past, so it was quite a novelty to turn up with all senses alert.

2. We had a two hour window to visit Zeta, before rushing off to a Sydney Film Festival movie, followed by a poker, tequila and kazoo-jam session. None of this is really relevant, we just really need you to know how awesome we are.

YOU IS PERDY. The first thing to make an impression was the light. It was 5pm (Nanna Hour to some, Cocktail Hour to others. Us, mainly) so the sun was just setting, a nice time to notice how bright the space was compared to the moody dimness of the bar after nightfall, the only way we’d seen it before. Not really a massive stretch of the imagination when you realise that the main wall is made of glass. Remember: alcoholically stimulated. But everything about this bar is chic; from the walls of glass, to the tall ceilings, dark wooden decor, and polished floorboards. There’s also a multitude of seating options: weeny chairs and tables, a lounge area, bar, private lounge dens or out on the terrace. Being one of the coldest June weeks in memory, our first position was next to the massive gas fire, located directly below the wall hanging of a man’s head in a lion’s mouth. Let’s just throw that out again, this time with the capital letters it deserves: The Wall Hanging Of A Man’s Head In A Lions Mouth.

He doesn't mind the heat of the fire. He's already inside a lion.

YOU GIVE GOOD TALKY. The bar offers table service, and the staff were very friendly upon meeting us – seating us, asking how we were and taking the time to monitor how chatty we might be before allowing themselves to get enthusiastic. This, our dear readers, is one of the most subtle and brilliant indicators of great service we can find. If a customer doesn’t want to chat, diving head first into a spiel about the origins of a drink or the fascinating idiosyncrasies of climate is not really going to cut it. It’s a mark of a good host to gauge the level of commitment to one’s drink and to the vagaries of conversation. The floor staff were exclusively female and exclusively gorgeous, so it was a good thing they were all very good at their jobs. Neither of us are shy about getting our bitch on if and when beautiful people give us a reason to complain. It’s genetically programmed into us, because we own vaginas. No complaints, though. About the service OR our vaginas.

Okay, okay. I’ll stop saying ‘vaginas’.

THE BEAUTIFUL OUTDOORS. Although inside was nice, we felt like we were only at the edge of the action on our pouffes, so we took a trip out onto the terrace where most of the patrons seemed to be gathering. Being more pub inclined, we love a good courtyard, and we’d venture to say that this is one of the best that the inner city has to offer. The view is of the top of the Queen Victoria Building, the enormity and beauty of which can only be appreciated from above with drink in hand. How good is sandstone?

Lorin said "That's the money shot!" a total of eight thousand times.

Although it was a ridiculously cold night, we were able to take our coats off and sit and enjoy our surroundings, such was the efficacy of the heating. There are even trees up here, four storeys above the street, and if you’re careful to blink at just the right moment, you too can look like a derro in a park when drinking in front of them. All that’s missing is a paper-bagged drink and the slurred phrase “Wha-choo looging at, yegunt?”. Classy and that.

Not pictured: flagon and scent of urine.

The main drawback of the terrace situation was easily the darkness – we needed a torch to read our menus (and to take hilarious and insightful notes). Happily, we happened to have a torch with us. You come drinking with Lorin and Jo, you come prepared. We can sort you out with anything once we open our handbags – torches, bottle-openers, little pepper grinders, musical instruments. That shit is like Batman’s dream utility belt, but without the hammy acting.

The only way you can see a ninja is if they self-illuminate.

THAT’S POETRY, THAT IS The cocktail menu is possibly one of our favourites so far. This is just food, liquidised. Some of the drinks are so unusual it’s like they got a five year old with a spectacular palate to design it. With choice phrases like “Smoked bacon and maple syrup Manhattan”, “Pineapple and coriander martini”, “gin & tonic jelly” and “served in a baked and caramelised lime shell”, it seems that most of the cocktails contain stunning novelty elements that make them stupidly fun to choose from. The menu is extensive and awesome. Zeta provides signature drinks, classics with a twist, and then if you really can’t handle studying the menu, they also offer the classics. Something for everyone, including the excruciating temptation to sample everything and subsequently forget your own name and address.

YOU LOT. Being situated in an international hotel as it is, the crowd morphs gradually from obvious hotel guests to local dressy tipplers as the hours pass. We felt right at home to start with, but all of a sudden the bar became quite “sceney” and a lot of people were eyeing each other off to see what each of them were wearing. This is probably more of a weekend phenomenon than a weeknight thing, and we do have a theory that most bars in Sydney on a Friday or Saturday night are just hell by another name, but we weren’t overly upset by the fact that we’d be leaving before the still-vacant DJ decks were occupied and the inevitable gyrating commenced. The music that was playing while we were there was so smooth and inoffensive it was barely noticeable. It was there. It did its job. Next.

WEE, ETC. We both remembered the bathrooms as being a little cooler than they actually are. Located up some well-hidden stairs, the main redeeming feature is a communal boy/girl sink/water feature, and the wee sit-down-in-front-of-the-mirror nook is the cuteness, but beige walls and tiles make it a little bland. All very lovely, just not as spunky as the rest of the bar. The designers seemed to run out of inspiration, but happily not toilet paper.

Be careful not to wash off the awesome.

DRINKY DRINKY: LORIN Vodka Dry: When asked what kind of Vodka I would like, I said that I didn’t mind. This was partly a test - the bar is sponsored by Belvedere so I was guessing that is what I would get, and bingo. This in no way shape or form is a bad thing. Belvedere is like mothers milk. That stuff is so goddamn smooth it’s dangerous. I’ve never been one to drink vodka on its own, but I could definitely give that a shot. I did make a note in my book saying “might call my child Belvedere” if that is anything to go by.

Which obviously makes this photo more than a little awkward.

My vodka dry was sensational, the dry wasn’t too overpowering and the vodka was a dream. The one thing that did annoy me was the glass it was served in. I might take this time to have a little rant about glassware. It has become apparent to me that all of my vodka drys are being served in tall glasses, while all of Jo’s Gin and Tonics are served in tumblers. I love a tumbler and I don’t understand why I always get the tall glass. It’s not like I’m ordering a cocktail or something mixed with lemonade, it’s dry! If you order a Scotch and dry it’s in a tumbler, why does vodka get the raw deal? I’m just putting it out there - if it’s brown, it should be in a tumbler. I’m probably wrong, but I don’t care, that’s how I feel.

Imagine how the candle feels.

Drink number two was the Zeta Prohibition Iced Tea With A Screwdriver Side. Tipping their hat back to the sad times when alcohol consumption was illegal, they have designed a drink so ninja-like that it manages to include four different types of alcohol, while making it taste like iced tea. Not only that, they serve said genius in a jar... in a paper bag... on a plate. It’s a jar in a bag on a plate. The novelty of this has still not worn off.

I don't think you understand. It's a jar. In a bag. On a plate.

At first I didn’t quite get why it was served on a mini platter with two slices of orange, then I remembered that in the drink description there was supposed to be Belvedere vodka injected into them. Sneaky vodka, it was hiding in the orange the whole time! It’s like ultimate half-time. Novelty aside, this is actually a really nice cocktail, a bit sweeter than any iced tea I’ve had, but still quite tart, not bad at all.

Don't EVEN tell me you wouldn't have done exactly the same thing.

DRINKY DRINKY: JO See, with gin and tonics, it’s the little touches that count. And also the gin. And.. and the tonic is kind of important, too. As is the ice. Okay, that started badly. Asked my gin preference, I opted for Tanqueray, and the drink came in a gorgeously voluminous tumbler (sorry, Lorin) with the perfect amount of ice and a great wodge of ruby grapefruit as garnish.

The tights are the traditional McDrunk tartan.

Our waitress poured the tonic in front of me from a single-serving bottle she brought over to the table, which was confusing only because the final drink was a little flat.

Not actual size.

I don’t know how you get a flat drink from a single-serve bottle of tonic, but I was too busy appreciating the perfect ratio, generous pouring and whimsical garnish to turn green and rip my shirt over a slight lack of fizz. I wasn’t given a straw, which I liked – proper drinkers want to get in there, lips and all. If I ever commit a serious crime, I’d like to think I’m giving forensics teams around Sydney a fighting chance of scraping my DNA off the edge of a gin glass.

For my cocktail, after scrutinising the truly glorious and tempting menu by torchlight for what seemed like half an hour, I settled on one called simply ‘Tokyo’. Choya (Japanese sweet plum wine) infused plums muddled and shaken with vodka, more choya and sake. It was both warming and refreshing, with both sweet and sour notes. Lovely. The selling point, though, was the ice sphere. Yes, class, the ice sphere. Intentionally referencing Japanese precision and understated sculptural elements, the drink comes not with crushed or cubed ice, but a goddamn, mother-freaking SPHERE OF ICE. An orb of frozen water. So round. So cold. So much joy. So tempted to drop it off the terrace onto George St. Which you should never, ever do.

Before.

During.

An astonishingly short time after.

To be the house bar of a hotel like the Hilton, you would expect great things, but Zeta is no ordinary hotel bar. This is a destination in itself. The crowd leave a bit to be desired, the bar itself is crowded enough to make table service your only option, and the terrace is a touch on the dark side, but the service is stellar, the décor beautiful, and the cocktail menu is a fascinating, creative and flavourful seductress with big boobs and a good bra.

In graph form, Zeta Bar looks like this:

See? It even looks like it's giving other bars the finger.

We’re giving Zeta Bar three and a half Jars-In-A-Bag-On-A-Plate out of five.

The Different Drummer

2010-05-24T21:37:00.001+10:00

185 Glebe Point Road, Glebe

If this is your first visit, click here to see what the hell it is we’re doing. If you want to see a picture of a Wookie playing baseball, click here. It’s okay. You can do both.

Speaking of Wookies (nice), remember how awesome the whole Star Wars thing was before Jar Jar Binks brought his special CGI brand of suckage to the franchise? A good bar is Star Wars. Bad service in a good bar is Jar Jar Binks.

All the colours of the rainbow. Well, two of them.

SHE’S A BRICK. HOUSE. The Different Drummer is a red hot spunk of a bar to look at. Drunkenly walking the tightrope between quirky and contemporary, it bathes itself in red light, bare brick, turquoise padding and artsy burlap, excusing itself to burp out a few endearing accessories. Really, of all the wall-mounted, three-dimensional, mirror-tailed peacocks we’ve seen, this one would have to be in the top five.

You may make your cock joke... NOW.

This decor is ON like Donkey Kong. No, seriously. They have Donkey Kong. See?

You have to get the thing up the... thing. To save the thi- yeah, we've never played this game.

They also have a spiral staircase. Spiral staircases are like speed for us. BECAUSE THEY FUCKING ROCK!!!

There's a lady who's sure all that glitters is gold. And she's buying a cocktail.

A two-level establishment, the Drummer (see how cool we are? We’re on a second-name basis with a bar) has three sections downstairs (front bar, mid-section tables and back covered courtyard), and an additional two rooms upstairs, good for functions and being able to see. Downstairs is so dark you can barely see your hand in front of your drink, but we likes our drinking to be done in the dark. We don’t know if this is a comment on our self esteem, but it just makes us feel more willing to get amongst it. The darkness isn’t a problem unless you’re trying to take notes, doing arts and crafts or defusing a landmine. Luckily, we were only doing one of those things. We might be good at drinking, but we suck at multi-tasking.

Lorin and Kage order by braille.

The red light boxes that run the walls of the establishment help with the visibility. Whoever doesn’t think that red is an amazing colour is obviously colour blind. You know what else is sexy? An illuminated fish tank. This bar just wants me to get it on and I haven’t even had a drink yet.

Sorry, but Lorin and the lighting concept would like to be alone.

DIGGING YOU LIKE A... YOU KNOW Now, in most of our reviews, we mention the music in bars as a kind of aside, using words like ‘unobtrusive’ and ‘background’. Not so for the funky Drummer – music is a feature, and a perfectly matched and joyously executed one. When we arrive, Triple J’s Like A Version compilation is playing, and then the DJ starts. A tiny DJ booth (and ‘booth’ is generous – let’s say ‘bit’) in one corner was used to magnificent effect with original vinyl crackly motown, soul, funk and jazz. Cat knew what he was doing, man, and Linda Lyndell clearly approved. Hands up who doesn’t like Motown? Oh, you don't? While it’s been a pleasure to write for you, I think this relationship has run its course and it’s time for you to leave. Now. No, just go.

Now look what you've done. He's packing up his ace choons and going home.

THE KIDS ARE ALRIGHT Clientele is primarily late-twenties Glebesque – fedoras next to puffy sleeves next to floppy ankle boots next to questionably necessary spectacles and stovepipe scruff – an interestingly groovy throng who probably know the definition of ‘irony’.

THE TOILETS AIN'T HALF BAD, NEITHER The toilets are black-tiled and red-doored, with possibly the most consistently roomy cubicles in Sydney. You could do high-kicks in there while you were spending a penny, if you were better at multi-tasking than we are.

NOSH ME BABY, ONE MORE TIME One of the most endearing things about the Different Drummer, though, is the food. Oh, sweet unicorns in space, the food is good. It’s all non-traditional tapas style, and arrives quickly, ready to be crammed first onto your table and then into your mouth. We tried the pan-fried potatoes with garlic mayonnaise (crispo-delicious), duck wontons with hoi sin sauce (cruncho-spectacular - you should probably know that these are little gifts from heaven) trevally & chive croquettes with wasabi mayonnaise (hot, tasty and yes I’ll have a bath in that mayonnaise please, my god how I love thee) and rare chunks of eye fillet with a blue cheese and vodka sauce. Jesus Marvin Christ. If sex tasted like cheese and vodka, this would be the most pornographic dish ever. Wait a second – sex does taste like cheese and vodka! Does... doesn’t it?

Yes! Yes! A thousand times YES!

DRINKY DRINKY
First things first: impressions of the two barmen on main drink-constructing duty. Very attractive gentlemen (although Bill Cosby is gonna be pissed when he realises one of his jumpers is missing). Both of them approached us to take our order, and we were a little excited to be served by them. This feeling didn’t last too long, as when we placed our order they just rolled with the punches, no chit chat, no nothin'. We’ve seen more warmth in a polar bear’s nipple. Fine, don’t make us think we have a chance, we don’t even care. FINE.

Theeeeen, one of them put the straws into our drinks with his fingers right over the mouth-holes. Yep. Anyway....

Have you ever seen Jo's impressed face? Yeah, this isn't it.

LORIN: Vodka and dry: Not a bad drink, they didn’t ask what kind of vodka I would like but what they used was quite nice. The dry was well balanced but on the weaker side of things. Squeezed lime, tick.

Cocktail: When we went to order our next drinks I decided to ask the bar tender if he had any suggestions, giving the man a chance to demonstrate his knowledge and skills while enabling him to talk himself up. The conversation went as follows: Him: What would you like? Me: What would you suggest? Him; (shrugged) what do you like? Me: Nothing too sweet, I don’t mind a bit... this is where I trailed off as the man then turned around to make our other drinks and did not listen. I thought maybe he would realise I had stopped talking and turn back around to ask me to continue, but no. At this point I turned to Jo and said “Well, I guess that conversation is over” and it was. WHAT?! What the F@#k is that about? He didn’t seem to be in a bad mood at all, that just seemed to be his style. He really just seemed like he had better people to serve than me. Ok, you’re attractive and can make a drink, this does not mean you have to be an arrogant twat.

These glasses are the warmest things in this photo.

Anyway, I ordered from the seasonal menu and got a Umbercue, which was muddled cucumber, Hendricks gin, lemon and tonic. I reluctantly tell you it was awesome. The bastard is arrogant, but he can make a cocktail. Not too sweet, ridiculously refreshing, and went down WAY too easily. This cocktail was so refreshing it felt like I should be out playing a game of tennis. If only you were allowed to smash the bar tender instead of the ball, I’d be set.

Pretty colours and an empty tip-tray.

JO: First up, my gin and tonic was really good – a barely perceptible sweet note pushing through cold, fresh sharpness with a wedge of lime. Serve that in a thick-walled, tiny glass crammed with ice, though, and you’ve got about three big sips’ worth. Drinks are very reasonably priced, but I still would’ve liked more for my money.

Must... get... more... up... straw.

The first cocktail I tried was from the regular cocktail menu - a Mexican Slipper – tequila, melon liqeur, lemon and pineapple juice. It was one of those cocktails that tastes non-alcoholic, so I could’ve knocked them back like water, pausing only to pluck the cherry garnish from its stem in that adorable way I do. Not too sweet or face-slappingly tart, the balance of flavours was just right. Speaking of face-slapping, our companion Kage’s Ginger & Apple cooler (vodka, ginger & apple syrup, apple juice, dry ginger ale) delivered a knockout punch with rings on. My last drink, and currently a dangerous habit, was a dirty gin martini, which was generous with everything including the olive brine, which isn’t always a good thing. Salty as hell, but otherwise fine.

Both cloudy and fine. And a little bit squiggly.

This bar does a lot of things well, and happy hour daily from 6 - 7:30pm, two for one cocktails is great value in anyone’s book. They don't just stick to the classics - they have a few sours and mexican delights to fill out the menu, and with the average price of a cocktail beng around $15, you can get quite a bit of value for yourself. All in all, decent drinks, gorgeous surroundings and incredible food were tarnished by snotty, couldn’t-give-a-shit service. When you feel like apologising to a barman for inconveniencing him by having the gall to ask for a drink, something’s wrong. We’d much prefer to go somewhere that made us feel welcome than go somewhere too cool for normal human interaction. With the simple addition of friendliness, the result would be vastly different.

We should be scoring higher, but alas, we can only offer two and a half three dimensional wall peacocks out of five.

Pfffft. We said ‘cock’.

Hemmesphere

2010-05-16T16:27:00.000+10:00

Level 4, 252 George St Sydney

That sign says "hemmesphere". That pose says "finger pistols".

Ladies and gentlemen, we are both devastated and delighted to announce that we might never, ever drink tequila from a bottle with a little plastic sombrero on the lid again. Mind you, we also said that once about wearing pleather, and look how that turned out.

Whatever. Hands up who likes tequila?

CELEBRATE GOOD TIMES. COME ON For those of you trapped under some kind of weird, non-alcoholic rock, you have just missed World Cocktail Week. Forget World Music Week or even Womens Health Week, this is the type of thing that really rattles our ice cubes. It should come as no big surprise, then, that when Merivale (the company behind Hemmesphere, Ivy, and a bunch of other Sydney bars) announced they were going to celebrate World Cocktail week, we obviously had to get involved. Each Merivale venue hosted a ‘masterclass’ based on a different spirit on different days of the week. Hello, genius. While you might assume that we would do the vodka or gin masterclasses, given our usual standard drinks, we threw a curve ball and decided to attend the tequila masterclass at Hemmesphere, the next card in the pack.

It doesn't take much to make us happy. About 350mls should do it.

OOH, I LIKE WHAT YOU’VE DONE WITH THE PLACE Hemmesphere is one of our favourite bars in Sydney – we don’t know if it’s the dark decor, the mismatched lounges, the stunning and friendly staff, or the large amount of pillows that make us want to run and jump into them like we were a 27.. 38.. er, 5 year old... but every time we visit we have a great time.

If these pillows could talk... that would be really weird.

Being both classy and relaxed, like Clive Owen, it made us feel special and cool when quite clearly we are normally only one of those things. When the lift doors open and you enter the foyer, there is a host waiting to greet you and seat you somewhere comfortable, then have a little chat with you and work out what kind of drink you would like. See? Special.
On normal nights, cocktails at Hemmesphere will generally set you back around $20, which unfortunately we’re noticing is the standard price of a cocktail these days. For the quality of venue though, that’s pretty good. There’s food available from Sushi E if you get peckish, the quality of which should knock your socks off. Lorin in particular goes a bit melty in the face of expertly crafted canapés, and has a message for the resident head chef: Dear Ura San, marry me. If you would like to take a younger wife, I’m sure there is a long line offering, but I will happily glass my way to the top.

The music is ambient yet funky, with a variety of well known DJs in the Sydney scene on rotation. There is an awesome little courtyard, which on a warm night is unbelievable. You kind of forget you’re on the fourth floor of a building until you go out and see the lights and stars. The toilets are dark, some might say a little too dark, especially if you would like to check your make-up, but the decor and lighting do match the rest of the venue. My god, they’re the nicest smelling bathrooms we’ve been in, though.

WHAT? YOU’RE DOING THE WHAT NOW? A special area had been set up for the class, with tiny tables laden with tasting glasses (five each), a main table groaning under bottles of tequila and cocktail-making equipment, and a projector and screen for educational purposes. We don’t know if you’ve realised by now, but we take our drinking pretty seriously, and this set up just about gave us an unnatural physical response. For our entire high school and university careers, we couldn’t understand why all classrooms didn’t look like this.

Let me play you a tune.

This is how it went down:

Class hosts:

1. Sebastien, Hemmesphere’s incredibly polite and attentive bar manager. You haven’t lived until you’ve heard Spanish words pronounced with a French accent. Dude nearly turned himself inside out.

2. Shae, a ‘tequila specialist’ and hornbag. Officially, he represented Herradura, the tequila sponsor. Unofficially, he represented a smile and a wink in our pants. In fact, one of the only truly serious conversations we had all night was a debate regarding the fabric of Shae’s trousers. Conclusion: probably not leather, but really quite, quite shiny.

Teachy Teachy. Shae fired up the projector and taught us everything we ever wanted to know about tequila. We’re going to let you in on a secret: the more you pay, the better tequila is – you can use the same principle when choosing sourdough bread or hookers. Honest. And you know what? It’s actually really nice. For example, we didn’t know that the older, darker stuff can taste like spiced chocolate or oaky vanilla, or that orange and cinnamon is a better deal than lemon and salt. Or that the phrase “I don’t like tequila, is there any wine?” makes us want to poke forks in the face of whoever utters it. Or that by projector-light, Shae’s buttocks look exactly like two ripe... sorry, FOCUS. Focus.

We didn't get a close-up, because we don't like to share.

Cocktails. We were given three cocktails each during the class, a practice that we have no objection to whatsoever.

1. El Diablo – tequila, crème de cassis, lime juice, sugar syrup & ginger ale with a lime wedge garnish. Quite sweet, with a subtle tequila flavour. Not bad, but nothing to really write home about. Because of course we always write home about drinking. Dear mum, pissed again.

2. Margarita – tequila, Cointreau, lime juice & sugar syrup with a salted rim. Obviously a classic, but this was the best bloody margy we’ve had, ever. They got that shit sorted, although being a high class booze joint, you would expect Hemmesphere to get it right. There was a suggestion that, to cater for those who don’t enjoy the salted rim, only half of the rim should be salted. To that, we say that if you don’t like the cheek-puckering slap of a salted margy rim, you should perhaps go see a doctor about the puny size of your testicles.

Robust.

Speaking of body parts, we’ve heard before that champagne saucers were originally modelled on Marie Antoinette’s breast, but we were newly informed that a margarita glass is modelled on Margarita’s boob. Testing that theory, we also learned that Margarita might need to invest in a better bra.

We like to express ourselves.

3. El Chino – tequila, port, sangrita mix (in this case grapefruit juice, agave syrup, coriander and chilli) & lemon juice with a grapefruit zest garnish. We’re pretty sure this was delicious, although the phrase “Man, high-quality smashed is so good” was uttered by Jo at this point, so there really could’ve been anything in the glass. Except stem strength.

I been eating me spinach. A gig-gig-gig-gig-gig.

Canapes. Throughout the class we were given some canapes which were prepared by Sushi E, a restaurant which shares the floor with Hemmesphere. Prepared by head chef Ura, these were just little bits of heaven sent to us – pawpaw with blue cheese and salmon roe, kingfish sashimi with Thai dressing, and a fat, apostrophe-shaped garlic prawn on a crispy wonton.

The sensation you're currently experiencing is called "saliva".

Delicious as they were, there were only three of them. Mental note Merivale, when pouring copious amounts of tequila into your guests, a bit more food might be an idea. Barely any time had passed before the upper-case comment “HELLO I’M DRUNK” appeared in our notes for the class. So, you know, win.

Demonstration In addition to the full cocktails we were served, we were shown how to make a couple more and given tastes using the time-honoured and dainty straw-sampling technique, demonstrated here by your humble reviewers.

Step 1.

Steps 3 through 7. Repeat until glass is empty.

By far our favourite was Hemmesphere's signature cocktail, the Bling Bling, and might we just say angels sang and played kazoo. This is not only a great tequila cocktail, this is one of the best cocktails. Ever. Muddled chunks of pineapple and basil leaves are mixed with tequila, apple liqueur, apple juice and lime juice. Balancing the sweet fruits with basil is a stroke of genius, and seriously, if we could have a glass a day of that apple goodness it may not keep the doctor away, but we’d gladly go to hospital for it. Bugger tasting tiny bits in a straw – we wanted ten in an intravenous drip.

Blind tasting. After learning about the different types of tequila and their ageing and distilling processes, we were invited to taste the five generous samples in front of us and take a guess at their particular variety.

Snorting is kind of frowned upon, though.

One of the tequilas was a $500-a-bottle ‘Seleccion Suprema’, which our mate Knighty described as ‘dessert’ – it was the colour of syrupy caramel and tasted like warmly spiced magnificent with a hot damn aftertaste. Jo scored two out of five, probably due to the fact that it’s hard to be discerning when you have two fists full of tequila. Lorin scored four out of five, only because she couldn’t remember what the fifth type was called. If we’d known in school that all you had to do to ace tests was to include alcohol, perhaps our educational results would’ve been a little different. Our self-professed tequila expert buddy Gibbo claimed five out of five, and won a free bottle of the lovely stuff. ‘Pig in mud’ is a term that comes to mind. We don’t know if the bottle even made it home.

It's not the photo that's blurry. You're just off your tits on tequila.

Also, another tip (we like to educate and enlighten here at 52 Pickup): apparently to cleanse your palate, you should take a sip of water and then smell your own skin. Luckily, our skin smells like rose petals, sunshine and human flesh.

Also a little bit like shame.

Goodie bags. Yeah. We got goodie bags. That’s like topping off a foot massage from Jason Statham with a tongue-pash from the Spanish soccer team. But, y’know – less hairy or likely to cry.

It looks a lot bigger when Lorin holds it.

Despite not having our usual drinks, we’re beyond pleased with getting to experience the cocktails we did. Sorry, I’ve got a call coming through. Hello? Oh, hi Bling Bling. What’s that? You think we should start seeing each other on a regular basis? Well, it’s a bit sudden, but okay.

We’re giving Hemmesphere four boob-shaped glasses out of five.

Madame Fling Flong

2010-04-25T11:31:00.000+10:00

Level 1, 169 King Street, Newtown

New here? This here explains what we’re doing with this blog. This here explains what we’re doing with our lives.

Note: there is no head-minding service here.

We love Newtown. We love the people, the restaurants, the shopping, but we especially love the pubs. That probably only comes as a surprise to the dust behind the TV in the rec-room on the moon, but there you go. There are very few other areas in Sydney where you can you find such comfortable venues to sit, have a drink and just relax. You don’t have to worry whether or not you’re wearing the right clothes or if you fit in with the clientele, because lets face it, everyone fits in here. If we walked into The Courthouse and saw a navy seal talking to a bride, I don’t think we’d bat an eyelid. Unless they were between us and the bar. Shoo.

It ain't half fancy n'that.

It’s one thing to have great pubs, but, Lorin being a local and hence having awesome super-human inside info on the topic, we have to admit it’s only in the last year or so that Newtown has decided to fix up its act in the bar department. That is, of course, with the exception of a few lasting venues, one being Madame Fling Flong. This velveteen little gem has been around for a while now, but still remains largely unknown. Well, until our readers get wind of it, that is! Let’s just hope that you don’t both decide to go there on the same night. It’ll be anarchy.

It's like someone shook a bunch of awesome loungerooms up in a bag.

ANTIQUE-ALICIOUS Located above Soni’s tapas restaurant, Madame Fling Flong is a stylish art deco delight. Yeah, that’s right. Delight. Mismatched lounges, sonorous wooden floorboards, a variety of lamps, retro mirrors and wallpaper, dirty jazz music so apt and authentic you can almost hear needle-scratch on vinyl, this bar is much like the suburb: eclectic. It looks beautiful but best of all, it’s just casual. And by casual I mean relaxed, not to be confused with slack service or an establishment that just doesn’t give a fuck. It’s simply laid back and as you come. There is no table service, but really, how hard is it to walk three meters to the bar and make an order? This is not a cavernous and extensive space by any means. And while you are at the bar, you may as well help yourself to the large jar of self-service wasabi peas that are there for your pleasure. Yes, that’s right, WASABI PEAS. Forget peanuts, they’re for the unwashed masses. Wasabi peas are the future, and we like it. What better way to enjoy your beverage than chasing it down with a form of extreme eating?

Lorin had to go for a pea.

The menu offers a list of classics as well as the Madame’s signature selections. The signatures price at around $12, and I’m sorry, I don’t care who you are, that’s blatant value for money. The most expensive item on the menu was $18, so you’re not going to break the bank by patronising this bar. Maybe just a couple of New Year’s resolutions or a blood vessel at worst. If peckish you can order from the tapas menu and the kitchen downstairs will sort you out. Quality food and affordable. Tick.

THE WASHED MASSES Apparently weekends are busy here, and the Tuesday night movie deal (a cheesy movie, a drink and a mezze plate for twenty bucks) is booked out regularly, but tonight, at ten to nine on a Thursday, there are only two other tables occupied. Clientele are typically Newtown – one table of Sapphic sisters and one of what looks like walking, slender mounds of facial hair. As a result, we get to scope the place properly and endear ourselves to the barman.

Barman, consider yourself endeared.

While we only dealt with one barman, Cameron, we’d like to say that if he represents the standard of employees of this establishment, they've done well. Chatty, friendly, hilarious, and more than willing to indulge our whims, including sitting on tiny, tiny chairs right in front of the bar. Yes, people, the hilarity is like a freight train – IT NEVER STOPS.

When Lorin saw that Cameron was wearing an old gold Casio digital watch with a blank screen, the following exchange took place:

Lorin (pointing at Cameron’s watch): “Does that work, or is it just awesome?”

Cameron: “Nah. It’s just awesome”.

Genius. Cameron took our money and then told us to have a seat, and that he would bring our cocktails to us. Ten points for making the customer feel comfortable. Alas, we couldn’t really return the favour by making Cameron feel comfortable:

Lorin: “Do you get lonely up here?”

Jo: “That’s... that’s kind of a Cathy Bates question, Lorin”

Cameron: “...”

OUT OF THE WATER CLOSET We do enjoy a bathroom that’s decor-consistent. This little number had a compact brown lounge (not a euphemism), Art Deco mirror, and fantastically busy wallpaper. We would have been thoroughly enchanted had it not been for the toilet-visitor before us, who was clearly suffering from some kind of unfortunate gastric malady. Alas, also not a euphemism.

Important discovery: hot air dissolves patterns. True.

DRINKY DRINKY: LORIN Vodka dry. Not only did it look the part, it tasted pretty on the money. Not the best I’ve had, but whatevs, it’ll do pig. Our lovely bar tender Cameron also asked if I would like lime, he’s so thoughtful like that. The glasses they serve their spirits in look like they could have come from my kitchen, so I wasn’t too impressed with those, but really, I’ve always been told it’s what’s inside that counts so I’m going to let that slide.

Lorin thinks the word 'coochie' is HILARIOUS.

Cocktail: When I asked what Cameron’s specialty was, without missing a beat he said it was a Manhattan. I liked the kid’s confidence so I ordered just that. Now, not being new to this thing called drinking, I probably should have asked a bit more about the drink before I jumped in. I know that a Manhattan is bourbon based, but I didn’t realise how heavy on the bourbon we were talking. To me it was just sweet, pink, bourbon, but I think that’s what a Manhattan is. I’m told by my esteemed colleague that it was actually nicer than some she has tried at other reputable bars, so I’m thinking it’s a gold star for Cameron.

Plus, there's totally a cherry in it.

DRINKY DRINKY: JO I’m a lady of very few unreasonable prejudices (particularly if you discount my feelings regarding Bindi Irwin), however I have a pet hate of tall, narrow glassware. I dunno, I just prefer the feel of a squat, heavy tumbler in my hand. And a man’s stubble on my ch... right. Focus. The gin and tonic inside my tall, narrow glass was reasonable if overly tonicky, with a single piece of lime and house gin. The blokes we were out with were drinking Portuguese Cintra beer, and I think they might have been dancing the superior drink cha-cha at this point.

Important discovery: Tonic makes Jo's shins look HUGE.

As I currently have a weekly ticket on the martini train (and a lifetime pass on the excessive-use-of-metaphor roller coaster, it would seem), I ordered one my way – gin martini with an olive, obscenely dirty. It was grand, with the only drawback being the pre-pitted olives – again just personal taste, as I like to roll the olive pit around in my mouth before deftly removing it with two fingers and placing the dented, disgusting pellet on my coaster. Nonetheless, it was hauntingly cloudy and, quite soon afterwards, completely gone.

Cloudy, with a chance of drunk.

Ultimately, the drinks may not have been the best that we’ve tried, but they definitely weren’t bad. The atmosphere of the place, the service, the value for money (and let’s not forget the wasabi peas) all ensure that we will come back to this little piece of gold. Madame Fling Flong is proof that environment, geniality and wasabi can make up for merely above-middling drinks.

Also, Lorin’s shirt sort of had the word ‘rack’ on it. Night made.

Your president, My-Rack O-Bra-Ma.

We give Madame Fling Flong 3 wasabi peas out of 5.

Cafe Sydney

2010-04-11T16:24:00.000+10:00

5th Floor, Customs House, Alfred St Circular Quay

Perched atop Customs House in Circular Quay, a lot of people have heard a lot about Café Sydney, and one of your increasingly endearing reviewers (Lorin) had never been there before, so we were expecting a lot. Gratification came before we’d even entered the lift. There is (and believe us, upper-case is warranted) A MINIATURE MODEL OF SYDNEY UNDER THE PERSPEX FLOOR IN THE FOYER. Anyone who has met Lorin knows that she’s not the tallest of creatures, so anything that’s both itty and bitty really pleases her. I’m huge, Jerry! Huge!

Thousands of tiny people can see her bottom.

A ROOM WITH OR WITHOUT A VIEW Right. Clearing throat noise. Back to the bar. The lift doors opened, and we were greeted by hosts in a dimly lit, chatty, buzzy bar. Escorted to our organically swirly seats, we were disappointed that there was no room on the balcony in front of the oft-lauded view, but we were there to drink in cocktails, not vistas. Now, opening the dustiest areas of our brains’ language centre, we’re afraid we’ll have to describe the bar décor as ‘groovy’. And we’re really sorry about that, but it is. Blue carpet, black and white curved, low seating and tiny illuminated tables, one could feel completely comfortable telling a cat that they dug something here. For extra laughs, do as we did and bring a ridiculously tall companion – obviously, the hilarity of watching 6’6” people drink in short chairs with their knees at shoulder height never gets old. That cat was the go, man, the finger-snappin’ go.

The bar is brilliant-looking; long, dark and sturdy, just how we like our... um, bars. Music was utterly perfect for the surroundings – cool, jazzy and thirst-inducing. Opposite the bar is an open kitchen which helps add to the atmosphere, but out on the deck - generally reserved for the restaurant’s patrons - is where you want to be. Oh, sweet nappy-wearing baby Jesus, THE VIEW. If you ever have to impress people from out of town, bring them here and your job is done. Luckily, due to massive dropped hints and some accomplished wheedling, we were able to get an upgrade and move out onto the deck, and can we just say, there is seriously nothing more relaxing than sitting down to a nice view with a drink. Every now and again you can be reminded that Sydney Harbour is actually breathtaking, and not just something that belongs in a snow-dome.

Yeah. If you want proper non-blurry photographs of Sydney, you're probably on the wrong website.

THE BOTTOMS OF THE HARBOUR Sticking with the dark-wood-and-white-walls theme, the bathrooms, if one has the arm-strength to gain access through the heavy doors, are simple and classic with stumblingly-appreciated touches. Black and white photos adorn the walls, and the trough-style sink, although odd, is old school enough to work. Little details like Aesop moisturiser, neatly placed and ordered hand towels and a flower box in the window all complete the experience. A-one water closet, people. A-one.

THE BIG BOOK OF AWESOME We were handed menus, or what Lorin referred to as Folders of Fabulousness, and left to make our decision. When the waiter noticed that we were taking notes from the menu, he came over, deftly tore the menu pages from their hard cover and handed them to us. Customer service educators worldwide take note: if you intentionally destroy part of your establishment’s property in order to make a patron’s life easier, you have won. Also, this menu was unbelievable. It’s extensive with an almost ridiculous amount of variety, and cocktails are classified under headings like ‘Long Lasting’, ‘Classic Collection’, ‘CS Creations’ ‘After Thoughts; and ‘Non-Alcoholic’. Frankly, that last one confused us a little.

It's squiggly, so you know it's good.

NOMMAGE Although it’s often claimed in the available literature that eating is, in fact, cheating, we couldn’t resist ordering a few plates of nibbles to sustain ourselves. Eyes soak up harbour views, bread and seafood soak up alcohol. Our doctor told us that. After a light snack of shaved Serrano prosciutto with olives and rye bread, Naan with spiced eggplant dip, salt-and-pepper prawns with chilli aioli and a few natural Sydney rock oysters, we were ready to get liquid. Is it obvious that we took a menu home? Naaaah.

DRINKY DRINKY: LORIN When ordering my standard, I was asked if there was a particular vodka I would like. Tick. When our drinks were presented, coasters were laid out and they were all served in different tumblers, a nice little touch I think. Not only did it look the part, it tasted the way it should. The dry ginger ale to vodka ratio was spot on.

Not pictured: angels singing, etc.

The first cocktail I had was A Hurricane, which is Barcardi 8 Year Old and Bacardi Superior blended with passionfruit, pineapple, orange and lime juice with a dash of Licor 43 (we took a menu home! Woo!). My favourite cocktail in recent times has come from a large multi-venue on George Street (which we won’t be reviewing as it’s not in the deck), and this is the closest I have found to it. Probably a little too similar to my favourite cocktail, but could I really complain for having found awesomeness elsewhere? And when it comes down to it, who had the cocktail first? Anyways, it’s smooth, fruity, but not too sweet. The presentation was amazing, a floating little dish of passionfruit to top it all off... it’s the details that matter.

Yes, mother. I'm eating my fruit and vegetables.

Having found a place that inspires you to relax and drink, it would have been rude not to have more cocktails... so we did. Next on the agenda was a Dabel Mule, which was Grey Goose Le Citron, sake and Dabel Absinthe infused with ginger, coriander and lime juice, topped off with ginger beer. THIS IS AMAZING. Seriously, I think I have now found my new favourite cocktail. It’s like it has taken my standard drink, amplified it and given it new boobs. It’s everything I’ve wanted in a drink but didn’t know until I tried it. Phenomenal.

DRINKY DRINKY: JO Hot damn, this place gives good drink. My standard, a gin and tonic (with Tanqueray, thank you for asking), was served with a blood orange garnish, which added a subtle infused dollop of special. I wouldn’t drink my G&Ts that way all the time, but that tiny smudge of something different made me sit up, meerkat-style, and pay attention. Gorgeous.

Jo demonstrating the Two-Handed-Concentrating sipping technique.

My (first) cocktail was a Janie Hendrix – Hendrick’s Gin with sake, muddled cucumber and rose water – and it was a party in my mouth to which only a handful of sophisticated and elegant guests were invited. The cucumber and rose petal garnish paddled just beneath my nostrils every time I took a sip, which was utterly sublime. Yes, I said that. I said ‘utterly sublime’. I know, I’m coming to terms with it too.

You're welcome, nostrils.

Also, because it seems to be my current flammable obsession, I ordered a martini. It was close to perfect, save for the fact that one of my companions stole one of my olives. I think it was Shakespeare who once famously said “Do not mess with a bitch’s olives”, but I’m not totally sure. I might have just seen it on the A-Team.

This was seriously an enjoyable experience. Although on the higher end of expense, it is totally worth a visit if you’re in the area and thirsty. Blag your way out to the balcony, take a photo of yourself, cocktail-in-hand, in front of the view and send it to someone that you don’t like who lives somewhere crappy. It’s really the least you could do.

We’re giving Café Sydney 4 miniature models of Sydney out of 5.

It's a bird. It's a plane. It's about to get thrown out by security.

The Argyle

2010-04-05T12:28:00.001+10:00

18 Argyle St, The Rocks

We have to preface our review of the third card out of the pack with this fact: we are both complete dribbling suckers for sandstone buildings and cobblestone streets. With this in mind, The Argyle was off to a great start. We also came to a very telling conclusion by the end of our visit, clues to which are scattered throughout this review like hot blokes in our bedrooms. Cough.

Everything's big at The Argyle. Except Lorin.

BRICKS AND MORTAR Walking through the entrance into the (massive) courtyard, we were greeted by the largest red lamps in the existence of man*, and travelling a little further, we entered the (massive) bar. Imagine a two-level barn purpose-built for really big cows and tractors. Now add some leather booths, quirky lighting, raw wood, incongruous plasma screens (even livestock need to know what’s happening on Fashion TV) and a long, chunky bar. Better take the cows and tractors out, though, because it’s getting a bit confusing. And maybe suspend a perspex DJ booth over the whole lot – perhaps just above where the chickens were in the original imaginary barn, and you’re pretty much there. Big, is what we’re saying. Big and sandstoney and cobble-stoney – made sense, as we were in The Rocks, home to the oldest bricks in Australia. CLUE ONE: The Rocks.

You can see the DJ's box quite clearly from this angle.

ALL THE YOUNG DUDES We visited on a relatively quiet Thursday night, but the friendly bar staff insisted that on Friday and Saturday nights, the place is jammed. CLUE TWO: Staff think clientele prefer to drink with hundreds and hundreds of other people. We checked out the tens of people who were there at the time, and one thing stood out – every different person had a different accent. For example, I think the glassie who told Lorin she couldn’t stand on the table to take a photo was Scottish. CLUE THREE: It’s a small world after all.

VAL-DERIE, VAL-DERA Then it clicked. Backpackers. The Argyle may be one of the fanciest backpacker bars on the planet, but it would be difficult to argue that it isn’t one. To be honest, once we’d pigeon-holed the place, we felt better about it. Lorin even stopped feeling like she was at schoolies week. Every crowd needs a bar that caters to them (backpackers deserve that privilege too, no matter how fungal their toenails are), and The Argyle caters bloody well. Music was loungey and non-offensive, treading gently on trebly disco’s toes later in the evening. The soles of the DJ’s shoes were impeccably clean, too. Thank you for asking.

THAT SINKING FEELING There are two phrases we very rarely use in life, yet both of them apply to The Argyle. The first is “That’s just too big”. The second is “Dude. You totally have to check out the toilets”. Just like the rest of the bar, the communal loos are gigantic. These aren’t toilets. This is a lavatorium. There are four Things Of Note in these toilets:

1. The communal hand-washing area. A long illuminated basin hovers under water pipes that drop, stalactite-like, from the ceiling. A single drawback: bugger me if we could work the thing. MAKE THE WATER COME OUT, UNIVERSE!**

Lorin's so drunk she think's she's on a train.

2. The cubicles. There’s something thrilling about only having a sheet of frosted glass between you and the other punters. Individual cubicles marked ‘W’ or ‘M’ ring the room, and you could see vague shapes moving behind the occupied ones. If you were looking. Which we… weren’t.

3. The alien-egg urinals. Extreme privacy is not as high a priority as awesome novelty at The Argyle. At the end of the communal area, what first appear to be back-lit alien cocoons turn out to be urinals upon closer inspection.***

For demonstration purposes only.

4. This vending machine sells shoes to walk home in. I know, right?

There should be another one for hats.

DRINKY DRINKY: LORIN When I asked for my vodka dry, I was not asked what kind of vodka I would like, but I’ll let that slide. Their average customer probably wouldn’t give a shit, so why should I? I couldn’t tell what vodka was used as it was under the bar, but it tasted standard. The tumblers were nice, a fair amount of ice and a squeezed lime, all was looking good. Except the colour. Once again I am faced with what looks like bad drinking water, so I’m a little hesitant, and what do you know? It tasted like overpriced crap. Come on people, how hard is it to add a decent amount of mixer?

Her whole body hangs off those cheekbones.

The cocktail: Now bartenders, when someone asks you what your specialty is, say something, anything, make it up, I don’t care, but don’t say you don’t have one. What kind of confidence is that going to instil in your customers? Sell yourself! So I ended up with a strawberry and lemon martini concoction with Galliano and vodka. The bartender tested it with a straw first and seemed happy with it, and I thought that maybe she was being modest when she didn’t sell herself and she had the great ability to fly by the seat of her pants... I was wrong. After cleaning her utensils before giving me my cocktail (wtf?) I was a little unhappy. It looked great, but it was just overly sweet for my liking, and tasted a little like the medicine you’re given as a child. Once again, I felt like I had been transported back to schoolies and was drinking lolly water, or as Jo put it “it’s the drink you have right before losing your virginity... in Queensland”.
The bartender must have seen my face back at the table and came over and asked if I would like it put into a chilled glass, and went and did so. Big points for trying to please the customers, but I’ll have to take some of those back as it did nothing to improve the taste.

DRINKY DRINKY: JO Punctual service swiftly delivered me a fine gin & tonic. It was fine. Amount of gin – fine. Amount of ice – fine. Flavour – fine. I loved the tumbler it was in, though – it’s just like one I happen to have at home now. Let’s move on.

I'm so classy even my ideas have lampshades.

For my cocktail, I told the bartender I liked things dry, and asked her to suggest something. “Dry Martini?” she asked, not sure if I was playing a word association game or not. I ended up requesting a dry, dirty gin martini (I just wanted to use more words than she did), and I was pleasantly surprised. I’m suitably chastened in that I didn’t expect a thoroughly decent martini to come out of an upmarket tourist barn, made by a girl who stores her bottle-opener in a sweat-band on her wrist. Well chilled, seductively cloudy, with two fat, unpitted olives = Jo happy. It also worked perfectly in getting rid of the taste of Lorin’s cocktail when I had a sip. Double win.

Not pictured: tennis racquet.

Basically, The Argyle is a place that’s made to appeal to a hugely broad spectrum of people, and you’d be hard-pressed to find nothing appealing there. Varied, eclectic décor, attentive service, curious idiosyncrasies and major cobblestone action all get nods. By the same token, though, it stops short of impressive, perhaps because it lacks a bit of warmth, soul or direction. Except for the shoe vending machine and the big red lamps. That shit is obviously awesome.

We’re giving it two big red lamps out of five.

*We don’t really have anything to base this statement on, but we think it’s true.
**Mum, we washed our hands in another basin. Honest.
***Mum, nobody was using the urinals when we inspected them. Anyway, we apologised to him.

Eau De Vie (Kirketon Hotel)

2010-03-06T19:14:00.000+11:00

229 Darlinghurst Road, Darlinghurst

The next card out of the pack was The Kirketon. One of us (Jo) had been there a few years before, and the general, dimly remembered opinion was a resounding ‘meh’, but as we were in the area, we thought we should try it.

Lorin points out the silent 'E'. Thanks, Lorin.

To get to the bar, you need to heave through the heavy glass doors at the entry to the hotel, walk through a deserted foyer and cafe area, through another set of heavy doors, past the toilets and around a corner. Whistling the Get Smart theme tune would not be out of place at this point. You basically just follow the sound of voices until you reach Eau De Vie, a newly-opened speakeasy style bar right at the back. The bar on our card had been sold, bought, refurbished, restocked, and re-invented.

The result?

Oh. My. God.

If this isn’t our new favourite place to be on the planet, we don’t know what is. We know that it’s probably premature to say this is one of the best bars Sydney has to offer in only our second post, but it’s not like we haven’t been to bars before we started the deck. It’s not without very real, very adorable tears in our eyes that we say this might be the most magical place on earth.

NUTS, BOLTS, ALLEN KEYS Eau De Vie is a small dark room akin to a cigar lounge, if only such a thing existed in our country any more. Chesterfield lounges, dark wooden tables and stools, a grandfather clock, a fantastic tiffany lamp and two world globes for good measure and voyage-plotting. I know what you’re thinking, but I promise you - this only sounds like your grandpa’s house if your grandpa was the coolest goddamn alcoholic in history.

This is both the time and the place.

With a full house and lots of laughter, this bar immediately made us feel welcome and thankful that such a place existed. We were expecting an older crowd, but it was surprisingly young for the style of the venue. The choice of music was odd and a little annoying to be honest, given our low tolerance for the electro-esque, but this settled down throughout the night to a comfortable, hip mumble.

THEM IN THE WAISTCOATS When you first enter, Barry the amicable Scot takes you to your seats - if at all possible, make those seats the ones right at the bar so you can watch. Alternatively, you could just paint your retinas with liquid awesome and shove angels up your nostrils for the same effect, but this is just kind of easier, y’know?
We immediately felt like guests, not customers, as Barry sat with us for a moment and chatted to us to see what kind of a night we wanted to have. When we ordered our standard drinks, he immediately asked if there was a particular vodka or gin that we would like, and looking at the heaving wall of alcohol there’s good reason for this question. There’s still just something about being asked what particular brand of spirit you want that makes you feel cared for – they’re either really trying to make your drink exactly how you like it, or they figure you’ll be flattered by this attention to your assumed alcoholism. Let’s just go right ahead and assume it’s the former.
Next, we were greeted by our barman, Calum, also a Scotsman. Coincidentally and without exagerration, he’s also pretty much the hottest thing on legs. I’ll refer to our notes at this point, which just state simply, in upper case: WANT TO EAT BARMAN ON TOAST. And frankly, if there was no toast I would neither mind nor notice. The other barkeeps in attendance, Phil and Elle, also scored highly on the aesthetic loveliness scale. See? We know their names. It’s that kind of place.

WHAT A TOOL Special mention has to be made regarding the tools of the trade in this joint. Cut crystal Royal Doulton glasses mingle with antique specialist glassware sourced worldwide. Mix that with a wide array of almost unnecessarily quirky and fantastical shakers, decanters, pipettes, bulbs and funnels and you have a whole lot of fascinating with the very real potential for leading towards a whole heap of drunk. Lorin’s succinct and clearly well-read description of the glassware was “scientific sh*t that looks old and classy”.

Martinis are awesome hypothesis: PROVEN.

Because of the cornucopia of accoutrement and our position right at the bar, we asked endless questions about everything we could see. THIS WAS A REALLY GOOD IDEA, as soon we were given mixing demonstrations and even tastes of many of the cocktails on offer. Hence, now we know that anything other than an ice-cold martini is a mortal sin, so Eau De Vie martinis come in a kind of bulbous test-tube embedded in another glass of ice. Calum then explained that the customer pours the hyper-chilled martini into their waiting glass at their own pace. F@#k. Off. Did we mention he was wearing a waistcoat? Let’s just put that all together and think about it for a while.

Don't mind me. Just holding your funnel.

DRINKY DRINKY: LORIN We immediately had a black serviette placed in front of each of us with glasses of water placed on them. Then the same for our standards. Simple attention to detail, but I love it. I’m happy to report that my vodka dry tasted and looked exactly as it should. Phew.

Note: Glasses of water untouched.

When we asked to see the menus, I was a little disappointed- not in the content, just the presentation. You are handed a black leather booklet, with beautiful gold font on the cover, then inside it looks like someone just typed up the text in Times New Roman in Word. Disappointing, but really, not a big thing to worry about. The menu however is really good, some classics, but also some quirks. My selection was a popcorn margarita.

This is the best movie I've ever seen.

Yeah, that’s right - there is salted popcorn on the rim of the glass. Awesome. This however, did not really live up to the expectations in my head. I thought it would be a lot saltier, which is just what I’m used to, but it was still a sensational margarita in the glass nonetheless.

Lorin: "There's popcorn in my mouth"

Jo: "Not all of it".

DRINKY DRINKY: JO Well hello, gin-and-tonic-exactly-as-it-should-be. I chose Tanqueray gin, primarily because it sounds so good with a Scottish accent. It was cool and well-mixed, with the kind of tang that gently slaps your tongue and then apologises to it. After noticing some bizarre glassware in the ‘fridge behind Calum and having him explain its use, my cocktail had to be the Hendricks Tea Party.

Q: Tea, vicar?

A: You're hot.

Four words, my friends: Teacup. On. A Stem. Filled with many more words, like cucumber, rose infused gin and fruit-infused black tea. It was orangey, warming, fresh, and, I’m afraid to say, since I kind of pride myself on being a smidge on the rock n’ roll side of life – delightful. It was delightful, OKAY?

My f*cking pinkie's out because I'm f*cking classy.

One shouldn't limit oneself just to the cocktail list, neither, as the staff are liver-shrivellingly knowledgeable and can make anything you can think of. Eau De Vie is the kind of bar where, if you asked for a dram of distilled essence of swan, they'd probably ask you which kind of swan. Black, of course! Only arseholes and groupies drink white swans.

FLUSHED WITH EXCITEMENT The toilets are definitely Kirketon-styled rather than Eau-De-Vie-styled, and are a glossy, contemporary, minimalistic shock to the system after the plush, endearingly cluttered bar environs. Nice, though, and from memory furnished with lovely cloth hand-towels and a flattering mirror. And by memory, I mean "memory".

We could seriously go on and on. We stayed for more drinks, tried a couple of beers, inhaled an elegant and delicious mezze plate, waited while Elle ran outside to see if the rain had stopped for us (frankly by this point the world had stopped for us), and discussed the possibility of living there forever.

This place blew our minds. The plan is to extend into another room and open a whiskey bar (with personalised lockers in case you don't finish your bottle in the one sitting), so it just gets better. When sorting out our bill we were given Moscow Mule gelato palate cleansers. I know. I know. Seriously, we don’t think we could invent a better gelato flavour, let alone fathom giving it to guests as they’re leaving to go drink at another establishment. They really just have thought of everything.
Sure, the torrential rain outside leaked through the roof and caused the lights to malfunction, but need we remind you: TEACUPS ON STEMS.

We’re giving it four and a half teacups on stems out of five.

Jimmy Liks

2010-03-01T14:31:00.000+11:00

186-188 Victoria St, Potts Point

That's rain, not sweat. Oh okay, and maybe a bit of gin.

WELL, LOOKY HERE. Walking into Jimmy Liks out of a sodden sheet of rain, we were quite impressed. A long thin room, with minimalistic decor; dark lighting, a black counter with a little service area below, and wood-panelled walls. We’d even go so far as to call it Asia-Contemporary, except that would make us sound like the snottiest kind of provincial wanker. So we won’t.
We like things to be simple and confidently executed, so the scene was set for what we hoped would be an enjoyable drink.

Two drinks, please. Oh, and also: get stuffed.

THEM IN THE APRONS Being ladies of the single persuasion, we consider barmen of the aesthetically pleasing persuasion to be an enjoyable diversion, and good ol’ Jimmy did not let us down in this department. Bar staff were dressed in black pants with a black V-necked shirts, simple, hot, and acceptably clingy.
When we asked to see a menu, our waiter not only produced one, he also produced an Itty Bitty Book Light to help illuminate the menu. An Itty Bitty Book Light. Just like that. Swoop, slap, click, ta-dah! God forbid they’d turn up the ambient lighting and ruin the moody, surly darkness – just slap a booklight on the bar and be done with it. We’re not ashamed to say that the novelty of this did not wear off quickly, although the old couple drinking champagne next to us had to whip out the reading specs.

Now, it’s one thing for your staff to be hot, but we don’t think it’s too much to ask for a bit of flirting to be thrown in for good measure. Yes, as a bar tender you might feel like a cheap tip-whore, but if two girls come and sit at your bar and ask you what your specialty is, it’s bad business not to do your best to work it. Responding with the phrase “cuddling afterwards” isn’t necessary, but give us something. This is where Jimmy loses some points. Bar staff seemed like they had better places to be, or worse, better people to serve. They were polite, but any one who knows us will tell you, we hate polite. The service was as cool as the over-iced drinks. When we asked for suggestions for our second drinks, our barman (after whipping out his magnificent, tiny illumination again) just kind of pointed at a few cocktails and then left us alone.

BOOM CHIKA WOW WOW The music was jazzy, ambient and sort of just there, but most of the sound came from the restaurant that takes up the other half of the space. It probably seems a little obvious to call it “Bar Music”, but it was… sort of musicky and… and at a bar. Who are we, Glenn A Baker?

DON’T FORGET TO WASH YOUR HANDS The toilets, whilst clearly an admirable adaptation to the space available, were still a bit look-what-we’ve-done-to-Harry-Potter’s-cupboard-under-the-stairs chic. As a result, an apology had to be made to one of the other punters for a near-lesbian experience just trying to get to the sink. Cosy. Understatement.

DRINKY DRINKY: LORIN My standard drink is a vodka dry. For those of you who don’t know what dry ginger ale is (I’m hoping the readers of this blog would), it’s a brown sugary drink, not as dark in colour as coke and it tastes of ginger. My vodka and dry looked like what I imagine water from Kenya to be, only not as dark. Point being, it was almost clear and I couldn’t taste the ginger ale, or vodka for that matter. Too much ice in the drink watered it down, so it wasn’t a good start.

I'm partly happy, and partly frozen in this position.

As for the specialty, I wasn’t expecting big things after my standard was murdered, but I was trying to keep an open mind so I ordered a Pandanas Ginger Caipiroska. This, my friends, is AWESOME. It seriously tasted like I was eating Thai food, but not in an I’m-chewing-what-should-be-liquid kind of way, it was just a delight. Made with their own self-infused Pandanas vodka (massive points for this), palm sugar, lime and ginger, this is an amazing cocktail. For a bar attached to a Thai restaurant, it is a well designed drink and the menu follows suit. Eclectic with some classics, but with a twist. It’s just a shame they couldn’t get the simple drinks right.

DRINKY DRINKY: JO My standard gin & tonic was pretty good as far as big glasses full of ice go. As an alcoholic drink, though, it was a touch on the disappointing side – watery, with ice that actually cleared the top of the glass, reminding me of the Titanic. Unfortunately when I think of the Titanic, I think of Celine Dion, who is also kind of bland, watery and frigid-looking.

Look out to starboard, cap'n. Or is that port? I can never t... damn.

My cocktail, a Bangkok Iced Tea (lime, basil, mint, Noilly Prat & lemon ginger tea) was a massive improvement – it was as refreshing as… well, as a glass full of citrus, herbs, vermouth and iced tea. And ice. SO MUCH ICE.

With cocktails priced around $16/17, it was quite reasonable, but ultimately, Jimmy’s is what we like to refer to as a transit bar. It’s not the destination in itself, but it does very well as a waiting area for the restaurant, and as an advertisement for snug black trousers.

We’re giving it three itty bitty book lights.

The Skinny.

2010-02-21T13:46:00.001+11:00

So what’s this malarkey all about?

Well, for Christmas 2009, I gave my mate Lorin a pack of Bar Secrets: Sydney cards – basically 52 short reviews of bars throughout Sydney, printed on a deck of cards. Here’s Lorin modelling the cards for you. She’s good like that.

Now, we’re not usually the kind of people who go around just promoting things willy-nilly (willies excepted), but any product that tacitly encourages people to visit a bar every week of the year is pretty much near the top of the Perpetual List Of Awesome (which we keep neatly folded in the fourth drawer down in the kitchen, near the takeaway menus and old Allen keys).

Anyway, being a pair of thirsty girls with adventurous spirits (especially where spirits are concerned) and a penchant for taking simple things way too far, Lorin and I decided to visit every bar in the pack and write our own reviews.

You’re welcome, kidneys.

We have to have guidelines, though. Without guidelines there is chaos. You know that. So….

Visitation Rights
We’re not putting pressure on ourselves to visit one bar a week – we’ll go as often as we can, and do at least one bar each time. If the bar on the card is no longer there, we’ll just visit whatever is there. Might make it a bit difficult if it’s since become a bikie clubhouse, a brothel or a construction site, but bringing a picnic isn’t totally out of the question. We’ll roll with it. Guest drinkers are more than welcome to come along and throw in their two cents, but we be the boss ladies, mmkay?

Drinky Drinky
We will each order a minimum of two drinks in every bar we visit.
First drink:
Lorin – Vodka & Dry
Jo – Gin & Tonic
Second drink:
A cocktail each – anything that’s being promoted as the bar’s ‘special’ and/or whatever the barman recommends.

Criteria, or Stuff We Noticed And That.
We’re leaving no turn unstoned here. Things that are important to us, that we will be taking special notice of:
Aesthetics/Ambience – how spunky the bar looks
Clientele – what sort of crowd the bar attracts
Service – if it’s good or bad, warm or intrusive, fast or slow
Hotness Of Staff – I want my drinks served by the genetically gifted. Don’t lie. So do you.
Music – what is it? Does it suit the place? Are we tempted to throw down a little interpretive dance?
Toilets – Aqueous haven or fetid cesspool?
Drinks – Der. We’re not here for a haircut. How’s the strength, flavour, price, garnish and coaster?
What makes this place special? – Kind of explained this one in the heading there, really. Move on.

We hope you'll join us on our tippling odyssey. It also might be nice if you called us a cab occasionally and laughed at our jokes. It’s what any good drinking buddy would do.