The most-loved bars and pubs in London

A fantasy- and sci-fi-inspired cocktail bar in Dalston.

Searcys' Iris bar on the fortieth floor of 30 St Mary Axe, other wise known as The Gherkin. One floor below you'll find their restaurant Helix.

A relic of a pub, the Palm Tree has no time at all for the modern trappings most east London hostelries. Don’t expect the crispest of pints or the most chivalrous service either. But people still traipse to this middle-of-nowhere Mile End venue for something money can’t buy – the Palm Tree provides a Cockney experience more intense than Danny Dyer pulling pints at the Queen Vic. Signed pictures of obsolete celebrities and forgotten jockeys line the walls above the oval-shaped bar, and spaces that aren’t plastered with memorabilia are covered in gold chintz accented by cabaret-esque red lighting. Regulars can be real characters, but it’s refreshing to visit somewhere with a distinct lack of hipsters. Its canalside position is appealing to summer strollers, but it’s the evening vibe that’s the real draw. There’s often a live band, and since there are no neighbours within shouting distance, late-night knees-ups often get lairy.

This is the original ping pong bar that Bounce opened and it's located, allegedly, on the exact spot that the beautiful, bouncy game was invented.  Along with a satisfying selection of pizzas (straight from the wood-burning oven), canapé packages and suave cocktails, Bounce serves up a night of competitive fun in an edgy industrial-chic space. The restaurant is raised on a platform overlooking the ping pong drama unfolding on the 17 tables below, so you don't have to worry about wayward balls when you're not in the throes of a game.

Since first opening in 2013, Radio Rooftop Bar high above the Strand has secured its status as one of central London’s prime rooftop drinking destinations. But it’s also drawn its fair share of negative attention from customers stuck in queues or turned away at the door, by staff described in very unflattering terms across social media. Timing is key. On a Monday evening, we were up on the terrace faster than a raincloud could appear. Service once we found a seat wasn’t quite so pacey, but that only buys you more time to absorb those extraordinary 360-degree views of every star of the London skyline. The terrace is much like a slick Ibiza sun lounge – although you probably won’t find such plush blankets and patio heaters in the Balearic Islands. There’s a soundtrack to match, with background house beats a hit with the inevitable flashy Essex boys in town for a knees-up. (It’s worth noting that same-sex groups of more than five are barred.) It can be a strange mix of people here, spanning the aforementioned lad crew, older American tourists, fashionistas in floppy hats and work colleagues on awkward outings all rubbing shoulders. Expect the usual rooftop prices, but if you’re just stopping in for a one-off drink with a view, wine (fizzy and still) is served by the glass. For summer sipping, G&T comes in fifteen forms, with different brands of gin, flavoured tonics and fruit infusions in the mix. With each costing £14, you’re paying for the altitude.

The first thing you should know about this Fitzrovia pub is that it’s Guy Ritchie’s new gaff. The second is that it’s pouring beer from his Wiltshire farm. ‘Gritchie’ is emblazoned on glassware; a name for the brewery that sounds like a Victorian disease but fits with the pub’s faux-creaking aesthetic. I’m worried I may have come down with a bad case of it, since I left feeling quite fond of the place, really. It definitely looks like it’s been decorated by somebody with more money than taste, but that sort of plays into a lord-of-the-manor vibe. I mean, there’s nonsensical, expensive-looking art on every spare surface in a charmingly Victorian-looking, wood-lined room complete with snob screens. The pub was packed with a mature clientele, and punters were kept well watered by slightly formal staff wearing waistcoats. The beer range is semi-Continental, with output from German-influenced Lost and Grounded and rarities like Delirium Tremens from Belgium on tap (at a price, mind). Those Gritchie ales would have been reasonable at £4.50 a pint, but none of them was available on cask as advertised when we visited. Instead, we sampled draught options from the brewery, including a session IPA and Angel’s Lore, a fairly nondescript lager. Upstairs is quite haughty by comparison: a farm-to-fork restaurant with the smallest of small plates, including meat dishes charred to the point of acridity then dribbled with jus. The ‘bread and butter’ and the ‘carrots’ were the best things we tr

Welcome to party island. You’ll have to battle past crowds of frazzled commuters at Waterloo station and climb up a series of brightly coloured staircases to get there. But it’s worth it to reach this buzzy rooftop oasis with swoonsome views of the city’s skyline. It takes its inspiration from the tiny island of Elba, just off the Tuscan coast, where Napoleon Bonaparte was forcibly sent in 1814. He took his horse and a few hundred of his closest pals. Political exile? Apparently he just partied in the Med for 300 days. Enough of that, though. Bar Elba’s historical theme is as loose as they come. With fairy lights, communal benches and a sizeable cocktail list, this rooftop bar is more about the (bona)party than the nineteenth-century military leader. The bar boasts a small wine, beer and cider menu, as well as a selection of bubbles for those with an emperor’s budget. Cocktails are sweet and summery: the frosé, a velvety-smooth, rosé and vermouth-spiked strawberry slushie, was easily the stand-out, while the Aperol Spritz was solid and came served in big sharing jugs for the thirsty. Balmy Italian paradise, Bar Elba is not. But, as the sun sets over Waterloo, with a view of the Shard glinting in the day’s last light, it is a sweet place to be. Of course, there’s no proof that the premise is in any way historically accurate, but ‘liberté, egalité, rosé’? That’s a motto I can get behind.

Please note: since this review was published, Rumpus Room has been renamed to 12th Knot and Mondrian London has been renamed to Sea Containers. Time Out editors, 2019. Hotel bars used to be the straight-laced kind of place you’d take your ’rents. Not so at Sea Containers, where Dandelyan has been winning awards on the ground floor while level 12’s Rumpus Room has stayed a bit of an inside secret. Now this chic bar is ready to welcome the world, with a terrace overlooking St Paul’s and DJs to lure sophisticated after-workers and Friday night socialites. I say socialites, since the venue claims to take its cue from the Bright Young Things, a group of hedonists followed by the tabloids in the 1920s. Think England’s non-fiction ‘Great Gatsby’ (or the ’20s version of the sidebar of shame). In truth, the theme’s not obvious, but the setting is pure style. Waitresses work the room in floaty, floral numbers you’d expect to see on Kate Moss in the French Riviera. And she’d probably approve of their way (a million miles from ‘basic bitch’ service). There are mauve banquettes, glittering chandeliers, and a shiny gold bar, but it’s the view that really wins the crowd. Stick around for sunset, when the room gets more blingy. Don’t expect such an atmosphere without paying a pretty penny; solid classic cocktails cost £14. My paloma was faultless, but my bank card withered when I promptly reached the bottom of the glass. Stick with champagne cocktails to feel more at peace; after all, Rumpus

The name of this Old Street cocktail bar may have delicate drinkers running for the hills, since a Gibson is also the name for a martini with a pickled onion bobbing in its depths. There’s nothing inelegant about the setting though, a small space that’s been given a 1920s look. Well, the Kirstie Allsopp version, with DIY lighting effects from decanters filled with tea lights and such. It’s an attractive room, if not all that authentic. But what is the real deal is the skill behind the operation, with bartenders having done their time over at prohibition-themed Nightjar down the road. And you can tell, with that vague ’20s decor, a similar tome-like menu and flamboyant decorations on drinks. And there’s table service from a flapper girl, which feels a touch unnecessary in a bar this size, especially when the barman can hear your pleas for recommendations (it really is a long menu). Thankfully, our flapper is unflappable, breezily rattling through our best options based on spirit and flavour preferences. I opted for an Electric Earl (£11), which is a knock-out mix of gin, earl grey liqueur, grapefruit juice and a whole host of citrusy ingredients. They blend it with in-house bitters made from the ‘buzz button’, a flower whose bud has an electrifying effect on the tongue that lives up to the drink’s name – my tastebuds were dancing for quite some time after each sip. A less classy version, The Great Japito (gin, tamarillo puree, Campari, tonka beans, pink grape soda, £11), was b

The Connaught, that most discreetly low-key of London’s mega-expensive hotels, has not one but two great bars. The Coburg, at the front, is a bit like a gentlemen’s club in feel. The Connaught, designed by the renowned David Collins, is all about style and glamour – mirrors, low lighting, silver leaf, tasteful palette, lots of plush seating for intimate conversation. It’s obviously popular with hotel residents too, so don’t come here looking for local colour. But even if you can only stretch to a single drink, it’s worth it: count out every last penny and treat yourself. The cocktail menu is stuffed with peerless examples of all the originals, but for the true Connaught experience the only way to travel is on the martini trolley – order one and it will be wheeled up beside you, with the drink mixed on top.

A fantasy- and sci-fi-inspired cocktail bar in Dalston.

Searcys' Iris bar on the fortieth floor of 30 St Mary Axe, other wise known as The Gherkin. One floor below you'll find their restaurant Helix.

A relic of a pub, the Palm Tree has no time at all for the modern trappings most east London hostelries. Don’t expect the crispest of pints or the most chivalrous service either. But people still traipse to this middle-of-nowhere Mile End venue for something money can’t buy – the Palm Tree provides a Cockney experience more intense than Danny Dyer pulling pints at the Queen Vic. Signed pictures of obsolete celebrities and forgotten jockeys line the walls above the oval-shaped bar, and spaces that aren’t plastered with memorabilia are covered in gold chintz accented by cabaret-esque red lighting. Regulars can be real characters, but it’s refreshing to visit somewhere with a distinct lack of hipsters. Its canalside position is appealing to summer strollers, but it’s the evening vibe that’s the real draw. There’s often a live band, and since there are no neighbours within shouting distance, late-night knees-ups often get lairy.

This is the original ping pong bar that Bounce opened and it's located, allegedly, on the exact spot that the beautiful, bouncy game was invented.  Along with a satisfying selection of pizzas (straight from the wood-burning oven), canapé packages and suave cocktails, Bounce serves up a night of competitive fun in an edgy industrial-chic space. The restaurant is raised on a platform overlooking the ping pong drama unfolding on the 17 tables below, so you don't have to worry about wayward balls when you're not in the throes of a game.

Since first opening in 2013, Radio Rooftop Bar high above the Strand has secured its status as one of central London’s prime rooftop drinking destinations. But it’s also drawn its fair share of negative attention from customers stuck in queues or turned away at the door, by staff described in very unflattering terms across social media. Timing is key. On a Monday evening, we were up on the terrace faster than a raincloud could appear. Service once we found a seat wasn’t quite so pacey, but that only buys you more time to absorb those extraordinary 360-degree views of every star of the London skyline. The terrace is much like a slick Ibiza sun lounge – although you probably won’t find such plush blankets and patio heaters in the Balearic Islands. There’s a soundtrack to match, with background house beats a hit with the inevitable flashy Essex boys in town for a knees-up. (It’s worth noting that same-sex groups of more than five are barred.) It can be a strange mix of people here, spanning the aforementioned lad crew, older American tourists, fashionistas in floppy hats and work colleagues on awkward outings all rubbing shoulders. Expect the usual rooftop prices, but if you’re just stopping in for a one-off drink with a view, wine (fizzy and still) is served by the glass. For summer sipping, G&T comes in fifteen forms, with different brands of gin, flavoured tonics and fruit infusions in the mix. With each costing £14, you’re paying for the altitude.

The first thing you should know about this Fitzrovia pub is that it’s Guy Ritchie’s new gaff. The second is that it’s pouring beer from his Wiltshire farm. ‘Gritchie’ is emblazoned on glassware; a name for the brewery that sounds like a Victorian disease but fits with the pub’s faux-creaking aesthetic. I’m worried I may have come down with a bad case of it, since I left feeling quite fond of the place, really. It definitely looks like it’s been decorated by somebody with more money than taste, but that sort of plays into a lord-of-the-manor vibe. I mean, there’s nonsensical, expensive-looking art on every spare surface in a charmingly Victorian-looking, wood-lined room complete with snob screens. The pub was packed with a mature clientele, and punters were kept well watered by slightly formal staff wearing waistcoats. The beer range is semi-Continental, with output from German-influenced Lost and Grounded and rarities like Delirium Tremens from Belgium on tap (at a price, mind). Those Gritchie ales would have been reasonable at £4.50 a pint, but none of them was available on cask as advertised when we visited. Instead, we sampled draught options from the brewery, including a session IPA and Angel’s Lore, a fairly nondescript lager. Upstairs is quite haughty by comparison: a farm-to-fork restaurant with the smallest of small plates, including meat dishes charred to the point of acridity then dribbled with jus. The ‘bread and butter’ and the ‘carrots’ were the best things we tr

Welcome to party island. You’ll have to battle past crowds of frazzled commuters at Waterloo station and climb up a series of brightly coloured staircases to get there. But it’s worth it to reach this buzzy rooftop oasis with swoonsome views of the city’s skyline. It takes its inspiration from the tiny island of Elba, just off the Tuscan coast, where Napoleon Bonaparte was forcibly sent in 1814. He took his horse and a few hundred of his closest pals. Political exile? Apparently he just partied in the Med for 300 days. Enough of that, though. Bar Elba’s historical theme is as loose as they come. With fairy lights, communal benches and a sizeable cocktail list, this rooftop bar is more about the (bona)party than the nineteenth-century military leader. The bar boasts a small wine, beer and cider menu, as well as a selection of bubbles for those with an emperor’s budget. Cocktails are sweet and summery: the frosé, a velvety-smooth, rosé and vermouth-spiked strawberry slushie, was easily the stand-out, while the Aperol Spritz was solid and came served in big sharing jugs for the thirsty. Balmy Italian paradise, Bar Elba is not. But, as the sun sets over Waterloo, with a view of the Shard glinting in the day’s last light, it is a sweet place to be. Of course, there’s no proof that the premise is in any way historically accurate, but ‘liberté, egalité, rosé’? That’s a motto I can get behind.

Please note: since this review was published, Rumpus Room has been renamed to 12th Knot and Mondrian London has been renamed to Sea Containers. Time Out editors, 2019. Hotel bars used to be the straight-laced kind of place you’d take your ’rents. Not so at Sea Containers, where Dandelyan has been winning awards on the ground floor while level 12’s Rumpus Room has stayed a bit of an inside secret. Now this chic bar is ready to welcome the world, with a terrace overlooking St Paul’s and DJs to lure sophisticated after-workers and Friday night socialites. I say socialites, since the venue claims to take its cue from the Bright Young Things, a group of hedonists followed by the tabloids in the 1920s. Think England’s non-fiction ‘Great Gatsby’ (or the ’20s version of the sidebar of shame). In truth, the theme’s not obvious, but the setting is pure style. Waitresses work the room in floaty, floral numbers you’d expect to see on Kate Moss in the French Riviera. And she’d probably approve of their way (a million miles from ‘basic bitch’ service). There are mauve banquettes, glittering chandeliers, and a shiny gold bar, but it’s the view that really wins the crowd. Stick around for sunset, when the room gets more blingy. Don’t expect such an atmosphere without paying a pretty penny; solid classic cocktails cost £14. My paloma was faultless, but my bank card withered when I promptly reached the bottom of the glass. Stick with champagne cocktails to feel more at peace; after all, Rumpus

The name of this Old Street cocktail bar may have delicate drinkers running for the hills, since a Gibson is also the name for a martini with a pickled onion bobbing in its depths. There’s nothing inelegant about the setting though, a small space that’s been given a 1920s look. Well, the Kirstie Allsopp version, with DIY lighting effects from decanters filled with tea lights and such. It’s an attractive room, if not all that authentic. But what is the real deal is the skill behind the operation, with bartenders having done their time over at prohibition-themed Nightjar down the road. And you can tell, with that vague ’20s decor, a similar tome-like menu and flamboyant decorations on drinks. And there’s table service from a flapper girl, which feels a touch unnecessary in a bar this size, especially when the barman can hear your pleas for recommendations (it really is a long menu). Thankfully, our flapper is unflappable, breezily rattling through our best options based on spirit and flavour preferences. I opted for an Electric Earl (£11), which is a knock-out mix of gin, earl grey liqueur, grapefruit juice and a whole host of citrusy ingredients. They blend it with in-house bitters made from the ‘buzz button’, a flower whose bud has an electrifying effect on the tongue that lives up to the drink’s name – my tastebuds were dancing for quite some time after each sip. A less classy version, The Great Japito (gin, tamarillo puree, Campari, tonka beans, pink grape soda, £11), was b

The Connaught, that most discreetly low-key of London’s mega-expensive hotels, has not one but two great bars. The Coburg, at the front, is a bit like a gentlemen’s club in feel. The Connaught, designed by the renowned David Collins, is all about style and glamour – mirrors, low lighting, silver leaf, tasteful palette, lots of plush seating for intimate conversation. It’s obviously popular with hotel residents too, so don’t come here looking for local colour. But even if you can only stretch to a single drink, it’s worth it: count out every last penny and treat yourself. The cocktail menu is stuffed with peerless examples of all the originals, but for the true Connaught experience the only way to travel is on the martini trolley – order one and it will be wheeled up beside you, with the drink mixed on top.

A fantasy- and sci-fi-inspired cocktail bar in Dalston.

Searcys' Iris bar on the fortieth floor of 30 St Mary Axe, other wise known as The Gherkin. One floor below you'll find their restaurant Helix.

A relic of a pub, the Palm Tree has no time at all for the modern trappings most east London hostelries. Don’t expect the crispest of pints or the most chivalrous service either. But people still traipse to this middle-of-nowhere Mile End venue for something money can’t buy – the Palm Tree provides a Cockney experience more intense than Danny Dyer pulling pints at the Queen Vic. Signed pictures of obsolete celebrities and forgotten jockeys line the walls above the oval-shaped bar, and spaces that aren’t plastered with memorabilia are covered in gold chintz accented by cabaret-esque red lighting. Regulars can be real characters, but it’s refreshing to visit somewhere with a distinct lack of hipsters. Its canalside position is appealing to summer strollers, but it’s the evening vibe that’s the real draw. There’s often a live band, and since there are no neighbours within shouting distance, late-night knees-ups often get lairy.

This is the original ping pong bar that Bounce opened and it's located, allegedly, on the exact spot that the beautiful, bouncy game was invented.  Along with a satisfying selection of pizzas (straight from the wood-burning oven), canapé packages and suave cocktails, Bounce serves up a night of competitive fun in an edgy industrial-chic space. The restaurant is raised on a platform overlooking the ping pong drama unfolding on the 17 tables below, so you don't have to worry about wayward balls when you're not in the throes of a game.

Since first opening in 2013, Radio Rooftop Bar high above the Strand has secured its status as one of central London’s prime rooftop drinking destinations. But it’s also drawn its fair share of negative attention from customers stuck in queues or turned away at the door, by staff described in very unflattering terms across social media. Timing is key. On a Monday evening, we were up on the terrace faster than a raincloud could appear. Service once we found a seat wasn’t quite so pacey, but that only buys you more time to absorb those extraordinary 360-degree views of every star of the London skyline. The terrace is much like a slick Ibiza sun lounge – although you probably won’t find such plush blankets and patio heaters in the Balearic Islands. There’s a soundtrack to match, with background house beats a hit with the inevitable flashy Essex boys in town for a knees-up. (It’s worth noting that same-sex groups of more than five are barred.) It can be a strange mix of people here, spanning the aforementioned lad crew, older American tourists, fashionistas in floppy hats and work colleagues on awkward outings all rubbing shoulders. Expect the usual rooftop prices, but if you’re just stopping in for a one-off drink with a view, wine (fizzy and still) is served by the glass. For summer sipping, G&T comes in fifteen forms, with different brands of gin, flavoured tonics and fruit infusions in the mix. With each costing £14, you’re paying for the altitude.

The first thing you should know about this Fitzrovia pub is that it’s Guy Ritchie’s new gaff. The second is that it’s pouring beer from his Wiltshire farm. ‘Gritchie’ is emblazoned on glassware; a name for the brewery that sounds like a Victorian disease but fits with the pub’s faux-creaking aesthetic. I’m worried I may have come down with a bad case of it, since I left feeling quite fond of the place, really. It definitely looks like it’s been decorated by somebody with more money than taste, but that sort of plays into a lord-of-the-manor vibe. I mean, there’s nonsensical, expensive-looking art on every spare surface in a charmingly Victorian-looking, wood-lined room complete with snob screens. The pub was packed with a mature clientele, and punters were kept well watered by slightly formal staff wearing waistcoats. The beer range is semi-Continental, with output from German-influenced Lost and Grounded and rarities like Delirium Tremens from Belgium on tap (at a price, mind). Those Gritchie ales would have been reasonable at £4.50 a pint, but none of them was available on cask as advertised when we visited. Instead, we sampled draught options from the brewery, including a session IPA and Angel’s Lore, a fairly nondescript lager. Upstairs is quite haughty by comparison: a farm-to-fork restaurant with the smallest of small plates, including meat dishes charred to the point of acridity then dribbled with jus. The ‘bread and butter’ and the ‘carrots’ were the best things we tr

Welcome to party island. You’ll have to battle past crowds of frazzled commuters at Waterloo station and climb up a series of brightly coloured staircases to get there. But it’s worth it to reach this buzzy rooftop oasis with swoonsome views of the city’s skyline. It takes its inspiration from the tiny island of Elba, just off the Tuscan coast, where Napoleon Bonaparte was forcibly sent in 1814. He took his horse and a few hundred of his closest pals. Political exile? Apparently he just partied in the Med for 300 days. Enough of that, though. Bar Elba’s historical theme is as loose as they come. With fairy lights, communal benches and a sizeable cocktail list, this rooftop bar is more about the (bona)party than the nineteenth-century military leader. The bar boasts a small wine, beer and cider menu, as well as a selection of bubbles for those with an emperor’s budget. Cocktails are sweet and summery: the frosé, a velvety-smooth, rosé and vermouth-spiked strawberry slushie, was easily the stand-out, while the Aperol Spritz was solid and came served in big sharing jugs for the thirsty. Balmy Italian paradise, Bar Elba is not. But, as the sun sets over Waterloo, with a view of the Shard glinting in the day’s last light, it is a sweet place to be. Of course, there’s no proof that the premise is in any way historically accurate, but ‘liberté, egalité, rosé’? That’s a motto I can get behind.

Please note: since this review was published, Rumpus Room has been renamed to 12th Knot and Mondrian London has been renamed to Sea Containers. Time Out editors, 2019. Hotel bars used to be the straight-laced kind of place you’d take your ’rents. Not so at Sea Containers, where Dandelyan has been winning awards on the ground floor while level 12’s Rumpus Room has stayed a bit of an inside secret. Now this chic bar is ready to welcome the world, with a terrace overlooking St Paul’s and DJs to lure sophisticated after-workers and Friday night socialites. I say socialites, since the venue claims to take its cue from the Bright Young Things, a group of hedonists followed by the tabloids in the 1920s. Think England’s non-fiction ‘Great Gatsby’ (or the ’20s version of the sidebar of shame). In truth, the theme’s not obvious, but the setting is pure style. Waitresses work the room in floaty, floral numbers you’d expect to see on Kate Moss in the French Riviera. And she’d probably approve of their way (a million miles from ‘basic bitch’ service). There are mauve banquettes, glittering chandeliers, and a shiny gold bar, but it’s the view that really wins the crowd. Stick around for sunset, when the room gets more blingy. Don’t expect such an atmosphere without paying a pretty penny; solid classic cocktails cost £14. My paloma was faultless, but my bank card withered when I promptly reached the bottom of the glass. Stick with champagne cocktails to feel more at peace; after all, Rumpus

The name of this Old Street cocktail bar may have delicate drinkers running for the hills, since a Gibson is also the name for a martini with a pickled onion bobbing in its depths. There’s nothing inelegant about the setting though, a small space that’s been given a 1920s look. Well, the Kirstie Allsopp version, with DIY lighting effects from decanters filled with tea lights and such. It’s an attractive room, if not all that authentic. But what is the real deal is the skill behind the operation, with bartenders having done their time over at prohibition-themed Nightjar down the road. And you can tell, with that vague ’20s decor, a similar tome-like menu and flamboyant decorations on drinks. And there’s table service from a flapper girl, which feels a touch unnecessary in a bar this size, especially when the barman can hear your pleas for recommendations (it really is a long menu). Thankfully, our flapper is unflappable, breezily rattling through our best options based on spirit and flavour preferences. I opted for an Electric Earl (£11), which is a knock-out mix of gin, earl grey liqueur, grapefruit juice and a whole host of citrusy ingredients. They blend it with in-house bitters made from the ‘buzz button’, a flower whose bud has an electrifying effect on the tongue that lives up to the drink’s name – my tastebuds were dancing for quite some time after each sip. A less classy version, The Great Japito (gin, tamarillo puree, Campari, tonka beans, pink grape soda, £11), was b

The Connaught, that most discreetly low-key of London’s mega-expensive hotels, has not one but two great bars. The Coburg, at the front, is a bit like a gentlemen’s club in feel. The Connaught, designed by the renowned David Collins, is all about style and glamour – mirrors, low lighting, silver leaf, tasteful palette, lots of plush seating for intimate conversation. It’s obviously popular with hotel residents too, so don’t come here looking for local colour. But even if you can only stretch to a single drink, it’s worth it: count out every last penny and treat yourself. The cocktail menu is stuffed with peerless examples of all the originals, but for the true Connaught experience the only way to travel is on the martini trolley – order one and it will be wheeled up beside you, with the drink mixed on top.