Carbon

Old Quebec Street
London W1C 1LZ

Aside from sheep and Take That there isn’t much that is cloned as frequently as a London bar. Yet, despite its name, Carbon is definitely not a copy. Sure, like most venues in the capital, it’s got four walls, a bar and an Antipodean general manager, but that’s where the similarities end. It doesn’t do pints, it hasn’t got a happy hour and it most certainly wont turn you away just for wearing trainers.

Carbon has rejected the retro post-modern Avant-garde mainstay. It’s starting its own industrial revolution. Where once candlelights and faux chandeliers were acceptable, now they’re usurped by concrete walls, steel girders and chainmail curtains. It’s stripped back and simple. It’s mechanical and commodious. Basically, it’s the grown-up equivalent of a warehouse rave. Especially as the DJ spins out house music from his altar suspended above the bar.

Carbon is not interested in what you do for a living or who you Dad plays golf with. All it wants to know is your name and what you’d like to drink. Then it sets its comely waitresses the task of ensuring you have a good time. They are aided and abetted by a team of dark, rakish gents behind the bar who are more than willing to proffer the exceedingly strong house speciality, the Cullinan – a champagne cocktail so brilliant it puts its £220million Crown Jewel namesake to shame.

The ground floor is where the hoi polloi eyeball one another from behind martini glasses. The dimly-lit, clandestine mezzanine, however, is perfect for patrons of the famous, courting or just-plain-shy variety.

Carbon is a lot like Clapham’s White House in many respects. Only it has marginally fewer beautiful people and consequently marginally fewer over-inflated egos. Plus, it is blessed with Molton Brown lotion in loos.

Tony Blair would do well to choose this as his local once he moves into Connaught Square. Otherwise 8 out 10