At the weekend I went back to the Jazz Age. But it took some finding. Trawling the length of City Road for about 10 minutes, my iPhone and sense of direction missed the opening for this particular porthole. A solid oak door markedly smarter than the others that flanked it (should have been my first clue) was decorated with a tiny gold nightjar bird on its pillar (my second clue – clearly I’ve no common sense), Bar Nightjar‘s symbol of the Prohibition’s revelry and nocturnal spirit.
Without a reservation on Saturday night you’ll be taking your chances but luck was at hand…
You’re lulled in by every element. The music – on this occasion a cocky tinkle of ivories, seductively thumbed bass and bluesey sax – is but one. I’ll put my hands up and admit I was there as much for the choons as the scene. And what is the Jazz Age about if not a bit of showmanship? The cavernous setting is equally as inviting with tables woven around the stage, intimately huddled but not overcrowded. The bar is the shrine – an altar of vintage bottles, cut crystal and every liquor a mixologist could wish for. Large shot glasses for water are set in front of you – and get this – continuously filled (without prompting) before the last drop leaves. (NB: You know those annoying people who ask for about 5 jugs of tap water per meal? That’s me.) Heaven.
And on to the tipple. I stared at this menu for about 20 minutes. Cheddar-matured monkey shoulder? Cocoa-infused amer picon? Whale skin infusion? If you’re indecisive like me, you’re screwed. Eventually I settled on an Advance London Sour. Even after reading the description and tasting it I couldn’t tell you what was in it but there was definitely some skill in the making. And what drink isn’t complete without a toasted meringue on the side…
I wish I could give a convincing critique on the music but as I said it was all about the scene. Sadly as it was getting into full swing I had to grab the last pumpkin back south of the river before midnight. Time travel over, ’til next time.