Mandarin Bar

Step out of the Knightsbridge chaos into the Mandarin Oriental's cool marble surrounds and you might initially expect to be greeted with a proper British colonial drinking experience, all obsequious waiters and opium-tinted drinks.

But, for better or for worse, the Mandarin Bar smacks more of the 1980s: the staff mix drinks behind a glowing frosted glass panel, the floor is as shiny as a banker's pearl cufflink, and the size of the cocktails bespeaks an era that recession forgot. They're not bad, either: a bit sweet (five spoonfuls is a lot of sugar, even for a caipirinha) but well balanced, and they really are huge. There's no obligatory service charge, which, given that the staff are splendid and the crisps are replenished at five-minute intervals, is pleasing.

When casting your eyes around the place, look out for the glass corridor containing the restaurant's supply of wines. They're conditions to make a sommelier weep, but those of us who can't afford the contents can at least enjoy a good look at what we're missing.