The most-loved bars and pubs in London

When your neighbourhood café serves cocktails worthy of Zone 1, you know the only way you’ll ever leave London will be in a box. But this Herne Hill newcomer – the second from the team behind Brixton’s Shrub and Shutter –  will even go so far as to help you keep the Grim Reaper at bay. Because, as the name suggests, it specialises in ‘cure-all’ drinks. A great fit for the area’s relaxed, thirtysomething inhabitants, First Aid Box’s white tiled walls, shelves of pseudo-pharmacological gear and menu with a medicinal theme suggest the snap of a latex glove, but it’s a concept lubricated by charming staff, upbeat music and flattering, flickering candlelight. Drinks make ample use of ‘shrubs’: spirits suspended in vinegar-based syrups that make for thrilling flavour bases. Updates of tried-and-tested classics include an aviation-style mix called Conscious Pilot (£8.50). Here, the rhubarb-infused gin lends the drink a subtle tartness that prevents the triple whammy of violette liqueur, violette shrub and violette droplets from delving too deep into granny’s knicker drawer. Elsewhere, the creamy exuberance of a Ramos gin fizz is given added depth with a shot of rich, earthy matcha-and-pistachio shrub. Both are served without gimmicks – though if it’s theatre you’re after, there’s a smoking cocktail served in a bell jar (£8), a cucumber sherbet in a bottle with a miniature cone of sorbet as a stopper (£9) or a vitamin C-laced bramble with a syringe of blood-hued Chambord (£8).But t

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.

If you thought you’d collected a lot of crap on your holidays, wait until you see Mr Fogg’s. This place is literally stuffed with the detritus of the Victorian explorer of the name: every wall is covered with hunting rifles, stuffed animals, weathered flags and maps. All right, these are just the imaginary souvenirs of an imaginary traveller, but that doesn’t make the profusion of clutter any less dazzling – or any less fun. It'd be easy for cocktails to take second place with an interior like this, but at Mr Fogg's the seriously knowledgeable bar staff make sure they're punchy, exciting and altogether sensational. It’s not cheap – this is Mayfair, after all – but for sheer spectacle Mr Fogg's is hard to beat.

Remember when Pat Butcher came back from the dead? The homecoming of Little Nan’s Bar to Deptford – it originally opened in 2013 and was forced to close in 2014 – feels just as euphoric. The ‘EastEnders’ analogy will make sense to those who experienced the pure joy of visiting the bar in pop-up form, as it roamed around London waiting to find a way back to Deptford. It’s a retro living room parody in a railway arch at Deptford Market Yard, with leopard print, china and Pat references aplenty. The little nan in question belongs to Tristan Scutt, who refers to himself as the grandson of this operation. He set up the bar in honour of his late grandmother (who made it to 104), and has been very clear that while it’s all vintage, there’s nothing ‘shabby chic’. Instead, it’s full-throttle ’80s front room fetishism, with cocktail menus hidden inside Charles and Diana memorabilia books, mocktails served in leopard-print mugs, soap stars in photo frames and cat-covered cushions galore. You can order cocktails by the teapot, or go solo and get a cocktail umbrella in the bargain. The drinks are on the sweeter, sillier end of the scale, my Chief Girl of Deptford being a bubbly mix of gin, prosecco, lemon and Morello cherry syrup, which tasted a bit like a boozy cherry Vimto. Snacks are true Brits – from a cracking fish-finger sarnie to hoops on toast if you’re into nostalgia. They even stuck sparklers in our portion of hipster fries (dusted with paprika). If you’re trying to make sens

Ryan Chetiyawardana, aka bartender Mr Lyan, is a London cocktail dignitary – he's worked in some of the city’s most pioneering bars and now has his own range of mixed spirits in Selfridges. He opened his first bar in Hoxton in 2013, and hot on its heels is this second one.  Number two couldn’t be more different. Dandelyan has a prime spot off the lobby of the new multimillion-pound Mondrian hotel in the former Sea Containers House. Dandelyan is run by a team of super-slick international-hotel ‘servers’.  White Lyan set out to shake up the cocktail scene by dispensing with ice and all perishables, and Dandelyan’s menu is just as groundbreaking – ingredients include 'chalk bitters', 'crystal peach nectar’ and the archaic-sounding 'dandelion capillaire'. The bar might be glamorous, luxurious and even a bit formal, but the drinks show Chetiyawardana’s invention and attention to detail. Ford & Warner (£12.50) was a fruitily fearsome blend of gin, 'bittered blackcurrant', dandelion flower and lemon, garnished with a little frozen cube of blackcurrant sorbet. An Evil Manhattan (£12.50) didn’t live up to its name but did contain a house-made beer 'vermouth', rye whiskey and bitters. Everything here has a hint of the garden about it, and everything is surprising without being show-off, and most of all, inherently drinkable.  Dress up before you drink up; it’s that sort of place. VIDEO: Check out Dandelyan's awesome new mousetrap trolley  

Since this review was published, Rumpus Room has undergone refurbishment. Time Out Eating & Drinking editors, March 2017. Hotel bars used to be the straight-laced kind of place you’d take your ’rents. Not so at the Mondrian, 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 Room is an occasion bar. We can’t vouch for

Another extra-tall tower opens in London, and at its top another bar. The wilfully unloveable 20 Fenchurch Street (the Walkie Talkie) caused mirth during its construction, due to the car-melting properties of its reflective cladding, and then resentment more recently when it became clear that its ‘public garden’ on level 35 was about as public as a Masonic lodge (visitors must book limited spaces, and just try taking a picnic or frisbee). But for the price of a cocktail (and 12.5 percent service, even at the bar), you can pass through airport-style security, ascend to the apex of the City’s latest look-at-me gesture and repose in this exclusive arboretum. The building is notable for its jutting bulbosity: the top-heavy shape is designed to maximise higher-rent floor space. But it means the angle of the glass up there and the framework of steel strapping hampers what you can see from the inside looking out. And its physical alignment means the main thing you can see is another of London’s skyline-puncturing protuberances, The Shard, just to the south. As this frenzy of vertical construction continues unchecked, other skyscrapers will become the only view. For now, in summer, an open-air terrace still provides a less fettered outlook to the river and Tower Bridge. But there’s a bar here, remember, serving drinks and food. The cocktails are decent (a Bitter Truth at £11.50 was a pleasant twist on a negroni), many containing champagne. The food is mainly bar snacks (superior ch

A dedicated classic and retro arcade games bar, The Four Quarters is the place to go if you want to brush up on your 'Street Fighter II' skills or just revel in nostalgia by playing 'Pac Man' until your eyes goes square. It serves primarily as a bar, but is also open as a cafe in the afternoons before the booze starts flowing thick and fast in the evenings. Speaking of booze, there's a good selection of craft beers to choose from, alongside the usual favourites, and hearty pub food is served. To utilise the stacks of old arcade games, there are regular gaming tournaments, plus occasional films screenings and one-off events and parties.

You don’t have to be a dedicated gamer to experience pure joy at Four Quarters East, a new Hackney Wick bar from the guys behind the original Four Quarters in Peckham Rye. Pinball machines, retro consoles set in booths and a suite of rare and restored arcade games activated by American quarters (don’t worry, staff can exchange your sterling at the bar) decorate the room, flashing and bleeping away. This joint trades on nostalgia, for sure – but it’s still as hip as the first venture, with a minimal, industrial look and South American disco on the stereo. As for games? Pick from ‘Sonic the Hedgehog’ on the Sega Mega Drive, classic beat-’em-ups or quirkier finds like two-player shooter ‘Narcs’. With so many diversions, it’s quite easy to end up passing a chunk of time here, and all that energy spent blasting zombies and Nazis could do with being replenished. Unfortunately, bar snacks are absent, so there’s no opportunity to power-up IRL. But cocktails abound, with friendly staff on-hand to offer up advice on the games-themed menu. The Thrilla in ’Zanilla was one hell of a ride, with gin, sherry and apricot brandy. And if you really don’t get your kicks from consoles, here’s a cheat: it’s happy hour on weekdays 5pm to 7pm, when Camden Hells lager costs £3.50 and selected cocktails are £6. It was quiet on our midweek visit, but with high scores chalked up on the wall and beer prizes promised in future, Four Quarters II should build up a community as big as XBox Live’s. Game on.

On first impressions, Mr Fogg’s Tavern – a cosy, Victorian-style watering hole specialising in premium ales – seems little different to a traditional pub. It’s warm, it’s crowded and the hooch is cheap (well, by Covent Garden standards). But as you delve further into the story behind this little boozer, you’ll find it’s inspired by the protagonist of Jules Verne’s adventure novel ‘Around the World in 80 Days’, and it’s overflowing with Phileas Fogg regalia. Look up and you’ll see ageing souvenirs and knick-knacks hanging from the ceiling and taxidermy mounted on the wood-panelled walls. Even the loos are in keeping with the theme, airing old-style commentary through a crackled mic. Despite this populist theme, and the central London location, the exterior is discreet enough to keep the place from swarming with tourists. There’s an extensive drinks list, but real ales are the crowd-pleasers here. After sampling a few, I went for the Whitstable Bay Blonde lager – a light, floral ale that avoids the bitter aftertaste common in many hoppy lagers. Drinks are modestly priced, served in tankards and pewter cups by staff dressed in aprons and hats, all with a fun sense of humour. You can expect typical pub grub – mini fish and chips hit the spot, but mushroom and potato croquettes were bland and (like most things) could have been improved with the addition of cheese. This pub manages to pull off the old-fashioned feel without seeming like it’s trying too hard. An hour into the eve

Ryan Chetiyawardana, aka bartender Mr Lyan, is a London cocktail dignitary – he's worked in some of the city’s most pioneering bars and now has his own range of mixed spirits in Selfridges. He opened his first bar in Hoxton in 2013, and hot on its heels is this second one.  Number two couldn’t be more different. Dandelyan has a prime spot off the lobby of the new multimillion-pound Mondrian hotel in the former Sea Containers House. Dandelyan is run by a team of super-slick international-hotel ‘servers’.  White Lyan set out to shake up the cocktail scene by dispensing with ice and all perishables, and Dandelyan’s menu is just as groundbreaking – ingredients include 'chalk bitters', 'crystal peach nectar’ and the archaic-sounding 'dandelion capillaire'. The bar might be glamorous, luxurious and even a bit formal, but the drinks show Chetiyawardana’s invention and attention to detail. Ford & Warner (£12.50) was a fruitily fearsome blend of gin, 'bittered blackcurrant', dandelion flower and lemon, garnished with a little frozen cube of blackcurrant sorbet. An Evil Manhattan (£12.50) didn’t live up to its name but did contain a house-made beer 'vermouth', rye whiskey and bitters. Everything here has a hint of the garden about it, and everything is surprising without being show-off, and most of all, inherently drinkable.  Dress up before you drink up; it’s that sort of place. VIDEO: Check out Dandelyan's awesome new mousetrap trolley  

When your neighbourhood café serves cocktails worthy of Zone 1, you know the only way you’ll ever leave London will be in a box. But this Herne Hill newcomer – the second from the team behind Brixton’s Shrub and Shutter –  will even go so far as to help you keep the Grim Reaper at bay. Because, as the name suggests, it specialises in ‘cure-all’ drinks. A great fit for the area’s relaxed, thirtysomething inhabitants, First Aid Box’s white tiled walls, shelves of pseudo-pharmacological gear and menu with a medicinal theme suggest the snap of a latex glove, but it’s a concept lubricated by charming staff, upbeat music and flattering, flickering candlelight. Drinks make ample use of ‘shrubs’: spirits suspended in vinegar-based syrups that make for thrilling flavour bases. Updates of tried-and-tested classics include an aviation-style mix called Conscious Pilot (£8.50). Here, the rhubarb-infused gin lends the drink a subtle tartness that prevents the triple whammy of violette liqueur, violette shrub and violette droplets from delving too deep into granny’s knicker drawer. Elsewhere, the creamy exuberance of a Ramos gin fizz is given added depth with a shot of rich, earthy matcha-and-pistachio shrub. Both are served without gimmicks – though if it’s theatre you’re after, there’s a smoking cocktail served in a bell jar (£8), a cucumber sherbet in a bottle with a miniature cone of sorbet as a stopper (£9) or a vitamin C-laced bramble with a syringe of blood-hued Chambord (£8).But t

If you thought you’d collected a lot of crap on your holidays, wait until you see Mr Fogg’s. This place is literally stuffed with the detritus of the Victorian explorer of the name: every wall is covered with hunting rifles, stuffed animals, weathered flags and maps. All right, these are just the imaginary souvenirs of an imaginary traveller, but that doesn’t make the profusion of clutter any less dazzling – or any less fun. It'd be easy for cocktails to take second place with an interior like this, but at Mr Fogg's the seriously knowledgeable bar staff make sure they're punchy, exciting and altogether sensational. It’s not cheap – this is Mayfair, after all – but for sheer spectacle Mr Fogg's is hard to beat.

Since this review was published, Rumpus Room has undergone refurbishment. Time Out Eating & Drinking editors, March 2017. Hotel bars used to be the straight-laced kind of place you’d take your ’rents. Not so at the Mondrian, 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 Room is an occasion bar. We can’t vouch for

Remember when Pat Butcher came back from the dead? The homecoming of Little Nan’s Bar to Deptford – it originally opened in 2013 and was forced to close in 2014 – feels just as euphoric. The ‘EastEnders’ analogy will make sense to those who experienced the pure joy of visiting the bar in pop-up form, as it roamed around London waiting to find a way back to Deptford. It’s a retro living room parody in a railway arch at Deptford Market Yard, with leopard print, china and Pat references aplenty. The little nan in question belongs to Tristan Scutt, who refers to himself as the grandson of this operation. He set up the bar in honour of his late grandmother (who made it to 104), and has been very clear that while it’s all vintage, there’s nothing ‘shabby chic’. Instead, it’s full-throttle ’80s front room fetishism, with cocktail menus hidden inside Charles and Diana memorabilia books, mocktails served in leopard-print mugs, soap stars in photo frames and cat-covered cushions galore. You can order cocktails by the teapot, or go solo and get a cocktail umbrella in the bargain. The drinks are on the sweeter, sillier end of the scale, my Chief Girl of Deptford being a bubbly mix of gin, prosecco, lemon and Morello cherry syrup, which tasted a bit like a boozy cherry Vimto. Snacks are true Brits – from a cracking fish-finger sarnie to hoops on toast if you’re into nostalgia. They even stuck sparklers in our portion of hipster fries (dusted with paprika). If you’re trying to make sens

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.

Nightjar opened in 2010 and has become such a huge success that it now operates an online-only booking system and charges your credit card if you don’t show up. It takes away much of the spontaneity that comes with stumbling across a place like this, but that’s the price of fame. And there is a good reason for it: Nightjar is a great bar. It’s a gorgeous, low-lit room with comfortable seating, smooth table service and a long, playful cocktail list divided into historical eras (pre-Prohibition, post-war and so on). This makes it a great place for experimenting, but you can also depend on expert handling of the classics. Early in the evening the sound system provides a discreet jazz and swing soundtrack; later the music goes live, with mostly jazz- and blues-orientated artists.

Though technically an upstairs adjunct to Jason Atherton’s celebrated Social Eating House (which itself garnered a five-star review in Time Out), The Blind Pig is a worthy destination in its own right. Perhaps as a nod to its Prohibition-flavoured nickname (‘blind pig’ being US underworld slang for a good old-fashioned den of iniquity), it’s not immediately obvious how to find it at street level; look under the vintage ‘Optician’ sign for the blindfolded hog doorknocker and boom, you’re in. The decor is authentically retro but never schmaltzy; lovely touches like the antique mirrored ceiling, copper-topped bar and charmingly mismatched (yet never discordant) wooden furniture made me feel (on date night) like a wide-lapelled Capone crony painting the town with his broad. If this all sounds a little contrived and too-clever-by-half, the cocktail menu brings welcome comic relief. Who could resist a Slap ’n’ Pickle (gin, brandy and pickle brine), Kindergarten Cup (incorporating ‘Skittles-washed Ketel One’), or Robin Hood, Quince of Thieves? (brandy, quince liqueur, mead). The puns are employed with abandon, but everything I tried was ace (even, yes, Dill or No Dill). Better yet, the bar snacks are made downstairs, so the grilled baby peppers, confit pork rillettes and duck fat chips are straight-up gangster.

Experimental Cocktail Club isn’t the kind of place you’d expect to find in Chinatown. In fact, it’s not the kind of place you can expect to find very easily at all: don’t be surprised if you walk past the bar’s unassuming battered door several times before realising it leads to this buzzing three-floor joint filled with trendy groups and dating couples absorbed in lively chatter. Many of them will have reserved – it's a good idea if you don't want to be left disappointed and standing on Gerrard Street. The drinks aren’t so experimental that they come in test tubes, but they’re consistently outstanding, making choosing what to order an almost impossible task. Throw in a gently lit backdrop of minimalist brick walls, mirrored walls and cut-glass tumblers and you're left with an opulent and cosy bar which, once found, you won't want to leave.

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.

Hidden from the hustle and bustle of Dalston and Highbury Corner is this friendly Islington local. There's a welcoming vibe as soon as you step inside, plus an array of movie posters, alongside other film paraphernalia, lining the walls. A British menu is served up from their kitchen daily (including the weekly Sunday roast), while the bar is well-stocked with imported and local craft beers, real ales, ciders, wines and spirits. The Alma also hosts a weekly pub quiz and open jam folk night.

One of Hackney’s hidden gems, this eclectic boozer draws a crowd of loyal locals to an interior that mixes candlelit antiques and modern curiosities. Food during the week comes courtesy of Beast Feast, alongside tasty, traditional roasts on a Sunday. Beers look like they could be a draw, with Kona Big Wave Golden Ale, Berlin Pilsner and Brooklyn Lager just some of those on draught. Keep an eye out for quizzes on Tuesdays, plus DJs playing at the weekend. 

Please note, Farley Macallan is now closed. Time Out Editors, June 2018. ‘Farley Macallan’ may sound like a character from a Scottish seafaring legend, but it’s actually a Hackney bar-restaurant where a bright neon sign above the counter glows with the motto ‘#Reinventing the local’. A cosy one-room bar with an events space downstairs, it offers brunch during the day Wednesday to Sunday (including the bottomless sort on weekends), classy small plates and a decent wine list in the evenings from Wednesday to Saturday. The words ‘Hackney’s fashion hub’ take some getting used to, but according to Farley Macallan’s website, that’s where you’ll find this new breed of higher-end East End boozer: it sits on a shabby corner on the not-so-appealing main road between Hackney Central and Homerton, where there’s a concentrated line-up of shiny discount outlets run by Nike, Burberry, Pringle and other big brands. This place isn’t fashion-y at all, though. The décor is easy and functional, with simple tables, pine chairs and stools, it’s foodie in a friendly way – the staff are happy to talk through their core offering of wines, cheeses and cured meats – and it attracts a young neighbourhood crowd. But beware of just ‘popping in’ to Farley Macallan. The place shuts occasionally for private parties or themed and ticketed nights (they run music and comedy events downstairs). The first time I visited, they were about to have a Caribbean evening, lining up potent-looking punches behind the b

Though technically an upstairs adjunct to Jason Atherton’s celebrated Social Eating House (which itself garnered a five-star review in Time Out), The Blind Pig is a worthy destination in its own right. Perhaps as a nod to its Prohibition-flavoured nickname (‘blind pig’ being US underworld slang for a good old-fashioned den of iniquity), it’s not immediately obvious how to find it at street level; look under the vintage ‘Optician’ sign for the blindfolded hog doorknocker and boom, you’re in. The decor is authentically retro but never schmaltzy; lovely touches like the antique mirrored ceiling, copper-topped bar and charmingly mismatched (yet never discordant) wooden furniture made me feel (on date night) like a wide-lapelled Capone crony painting the town with his broad. If this all sounds a little contrived and too-clever-by-half, the cocktail menu brings welcome comic relief. Who could resist a Slap ’n’ Pickle (gin, brandy and pickle brine), Kindergarten Cup (incorporating ‘Skittles-washed Ketel One’), or Robin Hood, Quince of Thieves? (brandy, quince liqueur, mead). The puns are employed with abandon, but everything I tried was ace (even, yes, Dill or No Dill). Better yet, the bar snacks are made downstairs, so the grilled baby peppers, confit pork rillettes and duck fat chips are straight-up gangster.

Experimental Cocktail Club isn’t the kind of place you’d expect to find in Chinatown. In fact, it’s not the kind of place you can expect to find very easily at all: don’t be surprised if you walk past the bar’s unassuming battered door several times before realising it leads to this buzzing three-floor joint filled with trendy groups and dating couples absorbed in lively chatter. Many of them will have reserved – it's a good idea if you don't want to be left disappointed and standing on Gerrard Street. The drinks aren’t so experimental that they come in test tubes, but they’re consistently outstanding, making choosing what to order an almost impossible task. Throw in a gently lit backdrop of minimalist brick walls, mirrored walls and cut-glass tumblers and you're left with an opulent and cosy bar which, once found, you won't want to leave.

The unstoppable uplift of the King’s Cross area brings a new bar/restaurant nearly every week, but the Booking Office remains the undisputed champion for cocktails. For one thing, it’s just a great place to sit, whether you’re in the lovely former booking hall, with its dark wood and soaring gothic arches, or outside overlooking the train tracks. There can be slightly longer waits outside, so don’t go there if you’re in a rush. Frequented by a lot of business people – and, naturally, by travellers – it’s not a place you go for a cool hangout vibe. But you make your own vibe at the comfortable, low-slung tables. The cocktail list starts at £9 for punches (a speciality) with most between £11 and £15. They play around with classic drinks adventurously but sensibly, and if nothing takes your fancy, ordering off-list is easy and rewarding. And take note (or be warned) – Office hours last until 3am from Thursday to Saturday.

The only problem we’ve encountered here is an excess of popularity: if you haven’t booked, don’t bank on getting a table whatever day of the week it is. Hoxton is not short of a bar or two, but this basement room packs in the punters with a lively vibe, incredible cocktails, and, in our experience, dazzlingly wonderful service. Staff go out of their way to make sure you’re happy. Some drinks have been on the list since the bar opened. They’re innovative but sensible, based on a tight grasp of cocktail fundamentals. Decor is minimal, table lighting is from candles, no standing is allowed. One of the best bars in east London – or in all of London, for that matter. 

Since opening in 2002, this London outpost of the top-drawer Manhattan M&H has been one of central London’s best places for drinking proper cocktails in clubby but unstuffy surroundings. Officially it is a members’ bar, and so discreet that the only outward evidence of its existence is a tiny sign next to a buzzer on Poland Street. But non-members can go – by booking the ground floor or basement bar only – up to 11pm. A list of rules states that the house doesn’t like noise, it doesn’t like rowdy, it doesn’t like poseurs or pickups. The restrictions are worth it for unfailing excellence in cocktail-making and a very civilised evening.

I really wasn’t expecting to like Cahoots, the vintage tube-themed bar that’s a bigger hit with tourists than Madame Tussauds. From its ‘tally ho’ e-comms after making a reservation, to the awkward ‘train guard’ actor on the door and his sheer refusal to break Mockney character, it was more fear-inducing than rush hour on the Central Line, and that’s before we’d even reached the ‘platform’ (you know, the bar). Once inside though, we quickly relaxed into cocktail hour thanks to efficient staff, low lighting and retro (read kitsch) underground paraphernalia. It’s a little confused about what era it’s portraying (we figure it’s the Blitz), but you’re not really looking for historical accuracy – Cahoots sure isn’t taking itself seriously. It’s all aided by a list of drinks spread across a newspaper-sized menu – plenty of options to get in the mood but a bloody long read. Luckily they flag a few from the menu to best suit certain tastes, and staff give recommendations.  Perhaps unsurprisingly, a Judy Garland (£10) arrived in cup and saucer. It was a refreshing citrusy mix of gin, aperol, grapefruit and camomille tea. For more of an edge, the old fashioned (£11) was a jolly good show, its foundations made from the bar’s ‘grog’ mix on the clever ‘Cahooch’ section of the menu. Snacks are basic, failing to nail the retro thing (we can’t remember our ‘vintage’ relatives ever craving a crisp and salad cream sandwich) but are an extra bit of silliness presented in ration trays for qu

Please note, Frank's Café re-opens on Friday May 18, 2018, with a brand-new look for the summer. Time Out Editors. Londoners continue to make the annual pilgrimage to this Peckham multi-storey car park for a Campari at Frank’s. Open until late September, the summer pop–up plays host to hundreds who mob a bar that, after a few years of notably festival-like service, seems to have upped its game this year.  For 2015, artist Richard Wentworth has covered Frank’s tarmac floor with wiggly aluminium paint akin to a glittering snail trail. The bar’s striking red tarpaulin cover and those sunset views (showcasing a London panorama) are plastered across social media as soon as temperatures soar. The crowd remains largely the same (you’ll spy plenty of denim cut-offs), although all walks of life make the trip to tick Frank’s off their London bucket list. Even when the capital hit record temperatures we were able to gain early entry with minimal fuss. Much later than 7pm though and we’d have faced a one-in-one-out door policy. While the bar  seems speedier than before, there’s no easy way to get a meal or snacks on warm days as the small kitchen strains under the pressure. It's a shame, since the new menu of enticing kebabs, grilled fish and side dishes wouldn’t go amiss in a Shoreditch small plates restaurant.   Italian cocktails are at the height of trendy too, ideal when cooling off in the heat. Rather than knocking back a sloppily-made negroni (£6), stick with drinks that are ea