The envelope was black, the address handwritten in silver calligraphy. Inside nestled a small, shining graphite key on a thin black cord. This was, the accompanying letter told me, my access-all-areas bracelet to the Cointreau Privé, “London’s most exclusive speakeasy”: a three-week pop-up bar and restaurant designed by Dita von Teese that promises “the ultimate in decadent drinking and dining, French mystique and illicit entertainment”.
Weakened by the prospect of the dark days ahead, I immediately booked a table and have been foraging for just the right down-at-heel-bombshell outfit to wear. Cointreau have picked their moment wisely; winter is the season when the speakeasy comes into its own. An urban December – chilling, monochrome and smogged in damp misanthropy – cries out for the cosy camaraderie, belly-warming cocktails and hedonistic escapism that exemplifies a true ‘blind tiger’.
“Traditional glamour seems to be making a comeback on the London party scene”, says Alvin Saal, Cointreau Brand Manager at First Drinks Brand Limited. ”This leads itself to the decadence and luxury of a pop-up speakeasy; the perfect place for social, charismatic and stylish people to frequent. The Cointreau Privé is a great example of bringing the golden age of glamour to a modern audience.”
The pop-up is modelled on von Teese’s LA home, including signature vintage furniture and items from her shows, with food from renowned chef Laurent Michel and bespoke cocktails. Von Teese launched the pop-up with a VIP cabaret performance on November 29th. It all sounds delicious, but the glamour and gourmet booze that we now associate with speakeasy style would have been unrecognizable to their original patrons. Born out of prohibition in 1920s America, the original bars were deeply insalubrious saloons, often controlled by organized crime gangs.
“A speakeasy could be a table, a bottle and two chairs,’ ” said Daniel Okrent, author of ‘Last Call: The Rise and Fall of Prohibition’. “Most were closer to the lower end. They were dives where you drank bad liquor from a bottle with a counterfeit label and woke up with a headache in the morning.” More than a headache; during the 1926 Christmas holiday season in New York, 47 people died after drinking poisoned liquor.
But there is still huge nostalgia for the genre in the States, where speakeasies have continued to flourish, albeit in sanitized, self-conscious sort of way. New Yorkers are spoilt for choice with the likes of Dutch Kills, founded by ex-Milk and Honey mixologist Sasha Petraske and identified only by a neon ‘BAR’ sign along an insalubrious street in New York’s Queens, or PDT (Please Don’t Tell), a taxidermy-stuffed cocktail joint only accessible via a phone booth inside a hot dog joint in the East Village. Los Angeles has The Varnish, hidden at the back of LA’s oldest restaurant, Cole’s; San Francisco has Bourbon & Branch, where entry requires a personalised password. “People have an affection for this period of American history”, says Brian Sheehy, one of the owners of Bourbon & Branch. “They want the mystery”.
It seems that Londoners want the mystery too. In a recession, classic high-glam city haunts feel a little, well, establishment – even though the prices in most modern speakeasies are more Jimmy Choo than bootleg. The hobo-hipster districts in the east of the capital have been especially quick to adopt the trend, and it can be hard to navigate Shoredtich without stumbling into the latest unmarked hotbed of artisan cocktail cool.
Now’s the time to experiment. A doable one-night speakeasy tour might start with a Spitfire (69 house cognac, peach liqueur, lemon juice, sugar and white wine) in ‘the bar with no name’ at Islington’s 69 Colebrook Row. Then wander south towards Old Street to find Nightjar, a suave Manhattan-style den hidden between two cafés on City Road, for a selection of authentic homemade infusions, liqueurs and bitters. Hit up Hoxton Square for Happiness Forgets (‘high end cocktails, low end basement’), before making a quick excursion to the neighbouring branch of the Breakfast Club, where you’ll have to climb through the SMEG fridge door to access The Mayor of Scaredy Cat Town, the worst-kept secret bar in town. Finally, head into the city for Calloh Callay, tucked away along the cobbles of Rivington Street, and finish yourself off with their Symphony #8, a hardcore winter flip featuring a whole egg, Bacardi 8 year old rum, Porter reduction, Grand Marnier and Mozart black.
Proprietors of the new speakeasies are keen to emphasise that the prohibition vibe is not just a soft-focus gimmick. Tony Conigliaro, the owner and bartender at 69 Colebrook Row, is an innovative and respected mixologist who has been dubbed ‘the Heston Blumenthal of the cocktail world’. His obsession in revivifying old recipes smacks of both the scientist and the scholar. “Recently, I’ve been looking at the history of how alcohol is made – and it does go all the way back to alchemy,” Tony explains. “There are alchemical texts that have whole sections on distillation that are still relevant today but have been left by the wayside”.
Nightjar features regular performances from musicians who specialize in music from the 1920s-40s, providing a welcome platform for rising talent. Happiness Forgets, under-designed, prides itself on its ‘no wallies’ door policy. These bars still strive to maintain a sense of community in a way that generic chains cannot. Even the Cointreau Privé, in its own way, is trying to create a safe space for party-loving Londoners to let their hair down. “It is strictly guest list only”, says Saal. “The exclusivity is essential to the ambience and mystique.”
It’s all a very long way from a crumbling Brooklyn honky-tonk; but at least nowadays we’ve got a decent chance of stumbling out alive. If not quite upright.
