It was a normal kind of evening with this lady and her gentleman friend. We meandered a stretch of the ancient Roman road Watling Street to take in a view privée of intriguing artworks by an artist whose kaleidoscopic influences apparently include Mallarmé's poetry, British zombie movies and 19th century French millitary painting. Topped off with a few bottles of freebie(r) and a Yemeni supper. As I said, a normal sort of evening.
We started about the long walk back east-central, pondering the eating habits of Jack Bauer when this lady's well-trained eye was fish-hooked at twenty paces by a certain unmistakable 11-point type word: gin.
Ladies and gentlemen, Mansfield Cryogenics have moved - this is Purl. A newly opened Victoriana-infused cocktail den nestled a safe distance from the Chardonnay-thirsty hoardes of the City and the Mojito-swigging trendos of the East. In fact, the only reason I have ever been in this part of town with booze-thirst before, was on another very normal evening of viewing miniature-man-suits in an old fire station, as one does. My gentleman friend allowed me the honour of buying the drinks, as it was a Tuesday and it was 10pm and and I could sense that he was, in his head, already watching re-runs of 24. The cocktail menu regularly changes in this joint, as the leaves from the booze tree fall, but on this balmy June eve I plumped for a Negroni and a Clover Club - both masterfully created with two of the fine array of gins available, with ice carved before my very eyes from a glacier (ok ok, a really big block). We listened to bizarre Charleston-tinged remixes, sat in the bowels of this Marylebone underworld in a little cave all of our own.
