The Pigalle Club

215-217 Piccadilly, W1J 9HN

That corner. You know, THAT corner. The one at Piccadilly Circus where every new schmo in town likes to stand and have their picture taken with a large, flashing reminder of Coca Cola behind them. Yeh, that corner. You find yourself there sometimes, unbeknownst yet gasping to escape, searching for a place to dive away from the din. So you take the first decent descent that comes your way, The Pigalle Club.

The stairwell is nothing too plush but you’re not that bothered, you’re just glad to be away from all that up above. It is downwards but it doesn’t feel much like a dungeon. The design is more….more Supper Club. You catch a glimpse of a poster. Apparently, it’s jazz, jive, cabaret, swing, rock ‘n’ roll and blues every night of the week. There’s definitely a buzz coming to meet you. Peering in you spy diamond-shaped mirrors. Swish. Elvis is featuring heavily on the playlist. No, wait, Elvis IS the playlist. Seems a bit out of tune with the art deco aesthetics though.

Dim, candle-lit corner chaise longues are shrouded in tactile secrecy. Is that a celebrity on a date? Furtive glances peer over bulbous glasses from the central crowded tables. Blazing waiting staff command the space with their whizzing capabilities. They clap their hands joyfully to the music as they move. You’ve stepped back in time, kid. You better sit yourself down before the cops raid the joint and bust your ass. The low ceilings, the gold leaf, the velvet crush. You’re in the American Prohibition era, perhaps a deliberate ploy considering the amount of Yanks round these parts.

And the shape! How strange. The stage is over to one side. The bar is stage right. The second tier has protective glass. This doesn’t feel like your classic straight-up-and-down club. This is slightly oddball.

A fella glides up to your table and asks for your order. He looks very familiar for sommelier. His must be a sommelier, there’s pages and pages of wines on offer. You feel a cocktail is probably more apt, considering the surroundings, but the list is disappointingly short. The fella suggests the house special, the Pigalle Passionfruit. He’s right too, it’s delicious. It should be, it’s not cheap.

You take a sip and peer around the darkened room. Everybody looks swollen with affluence. They’re almost neighing with haughtiness. Suddenly those jeans you’re wearing don’t look so swell. There’s nothing but glam going on down here. The table next to you must be a birthday celebration. Geez, someone must be trying to impress their friends. Bringing them to a place like this. It don’t seem right though. All those conversations fighting over one table. A constant display of nodding and smiling and pretending to hear what they’re saying over the music. Pointless. This joint is strictly close contact. Small groups are a must.

The loud attempts at casual conversation don’t show much respect for the singer. Hey…it’s Eartha Kitt. Wow, you thought she was dead. At first, the ‘civil’ crowd are treating her like background music. But wait, there’s a large area in front of the stage and it looks like some folk are up for dancing. Those grandpas sure know how to move. You would try and give them a run for their money but it looks like you’d lose. This place is all about the music.

On your way back streetside, to reality, you use the facilities. The handwash is Palmolive. Cheap. Where’s the Molton Brown? And wasn’t there a charge to put your coat in check? Suddenly the expense appeal doesn’t seem so appealing.

Recommended if: you’re on the lookout for unique décor and music in a particularly un-unique area of town

Avoid if: you easily disappoint when the cocktail list is not as glamourous as the venue