Barbet & Pals

My first thought upon entering Barbet & Pals is how many drinks it's going to take for me to be able to laugh at the same pitch as the other folks guffawing inside. That, and the mean-ish rumination on how many people know that a barbet's a kind of bird – though the decor, has, of course, made it glaringly obvious, from the birds flying off the servers' lapels to the little winged stirrers clattering about inside highball glasses.

Barbet is, mercifully, not a speakeasy. By that, I mean it isn't faux-hidden behind a pair of nondescript doors that can only be reached via a great big shady lift. No, Barbet's right there, flatly proud, placed in the inner lip of Greater Kailash II's M Block Market, which is currently in the throes of an intense, competitive popularity.

The unselfconscious location's a relief, really, and a bit of a surprise – given that inside, Barbet feels much more like a speakeasy than any of the other bars that have mushroomed with greasy ease across south Delhi. It's small, but not too small (38 seats). Dimly lit, but not in the infuriating way that makes you want to pull out your phone torch to squint at the menu. The speaker spouts 80s oldies, but not all of them are bangers. It's good to know there's yet some appreciation for deep cuts in this city.

When they launched, publications went wild waxing lyrical about the pahadi inspiration behind the menu. I read it all, and I'd come here to sample it, but to tell you god's honest truth, the drink that's caught my lascivious attention is titled Tickle My Pickle. Servers are hovering. My order's taken immediately. The cocktail arrives glisteningly, gaudily...red. When they said pickle, did they mean kaanji? A sip later and my fears are assuaged. There is, indeed, some carroty concoction hiding amid all the blueberry and gin. Consider my pickle tickled.

I knock back a couple of those and move – mistakenly – onto something called Cherry On Top, decanted into a very similar glass to Tickle My Pickle, which is precisely what my sullen, non-experimental self ordered a third repeat of. This isn't what I said I wanted, I cry to the server, who appears instantly, but I take a sip anyway. It's darkly fruity, intermingled with a not altogether unpleasant flavour of coffee and herby gin. I wave away the server and keep drinking. But I get the Tickle My Pickle again afterward. Such is the loyalty the unobtrusive drink has inspired.

I have forgotten, as I tend to, the concept and possibility of bar snacks while getting steadily drunk. My drinking mates haven't, and thus sits a Mrs Barbet Chicken atop the table – a spicy-ish tikka offset by lusciously glossy burrata, and an Indianesque version of chimichurri. Some experimental chap has gone and ordered the Bar-Brat Naga pork sausage, which is served with a bamboo-shoot ice-cream. It's surprisingly quite nice.

The staff, as I noted earlier, is wildly enthusiastic about getting the clientele drunk. Shots have been suggested twice. The third time, they lure us with a '1+1, madam' offer that simply cannot be turned down. One stubborn fellow in the group has said he will only stick to whiskey, and so the server comes towards us grimly, bearing a platter of amber-coloured shots so large I feel the faint burgeoning of an unwanted nausea. But they go down smoothly enough – they've been served in darling little half-glasses stacked one on top of another. One bears the whiskey and the other the – wait for it – pickley chaser. Not...quite a pickleback. But close enough.

It is nearing closing time and we have stayed put – a shining sign. The music is sounding like I want to dance. But I'm afraid we're close to overstaying our welcome. We are politely, charmingly ushered out after being fed an on-the-house soft-serve (it's delicious) and paying a bill that I will only inspect tomorrow, once the hangover clears. It was a good night.

The vibe: Friendly. Raucous. Expensively so. 

The drink: Cheeky, inventive. Won’t let you down. 

The food: Surprisingly hearty bar snacks with interesting flavour profiles.