Elk Bar

587 Fulham Road, SW6 5UA

For anyone whose seen those adverts purporting Carlsberg’s utopian dreamworld for blokes, Elk Bar brings that vision to life with wall-to-wall grilled meats, uniformed waitresses, plasmas and lager.

Welcome to bloke country. Here, the smell of testosterone lingers in the air and chaps wearing un-ironed shirts outnumber those with fashion standards; or women as they’re sometimes known. Gladly, the fairer sex is in attendance, although in the minority. They succumb to the wily ways of the management whose devious enticements include Sweet Shop Shooters (Bubblegum, Aniseed Balls, etc), an enormous 2-4-1 cocktail extravaganza, and a wine list that says “work is from 9 to 5, I make it 5.01, so hit me with your rhythym stick”.

Now, statistically, at least a couple of the blokes should be ex-crims, murderers or possibly even bankers, but on the whole these fellas are genuinely cordial. People who you’d possible converse with. Maybe even become acquainted with. And there’s a reason for that: they’re all Antipodeans. Going into Elk Bar is like wading through a shallow lake of floating seagulls, simultaneous “mate, mate, mate” squawks everywhere you look. Having laid claim to the land known as The District Line, and being relatively unaffected by the looming credit crunch with their quick in-out-no-mortgage-to-worry-about Euro trip, these chirpy chaps come to Elk to put a P to the A to the RTY. Of course, there are a few Brits but they don’t usually show themselves on the DJ nights (Thursday-Sunday) for fear of actually interacting with strangers; they usually just gather during the quieter weeknights for the post-work feeding trough.

I’m not sure who wrote the rules of fun, but at Elk they seem to adhere to the strict elements of food, flirtation and fluids. In the first instance, food, it’s BBQ all day every day, putting the men into menu. They only serve food that once had a face. If you were an elk, you certainly wouldn’t go to Elk Bar. Lettuce is an after thought, salad is a swear word (I saw a bloke proudly display his burger as he divorced it from anything that wasn’t meat) and the couscous comes straight from the Saharan dunes. There’s also a considerable lack of carbs (chips, baked potatoes?).

Be warned, the second rule of fun, flirtation, involves people getting jiggy wid it. Elk’s sister bars (Koko, Bison & Bird, Infernos) are reknowned for combining cheesey music with packs 20-30somethings out on the hunt. Hence, Elk’s music policy is always going to be cheesey. But this is a delicious cheese, cured in the 70s, 80s and 90s. It’s not some bog standard pop cheddar. No, this is cheese that feels elegant, like a fresh French brie. On a cracker. With chutney! You WILL singalong, you WILL ask the DJ to play Tears For Fears, you WILL embarrass yourself.

As for fluids, beer = lager, ales are clearly for soft Poms, and Guinness is a dessert. Everything else, as stated, is ladies night.
Aside from the inexhaustably amicable vibe, there are two other elements that make Elk worthwhile: the décor and the staff. Aesthetically, Elk is dominated by its popular beer garden, which looks suspiciously like a zoo enclosure with its high walls, potted plants, feeding area, dominant males and flambouyant females. They even herd everyone back inside at 10.30 after they’ve all been fed (granted, that’s due of neighbourly concerns). Once inside the atmos is akin to something like a house party put on by the team from Changing Rooms: wooden places to lean, mirrored places to dance, dimly-lit places for clandestine liaisons, all coated with hint of leather.

The staff are something else. Spookily attentive female waiting staff seem to constantly hover at your shoulder, waiting for that ghoulish moment to catch your eye, offer a mesmorising smile then hit you with the deadly ‘can I get you guys anything?’. To which you meakly reply the inevitable zombie-like ‘yesssssss’. And the service doesn’t end there. If you manage to avoid the gaze of the circling Stepford waitresses, then the staff manning the bar will get you: asking, unprompted, if your beer is cold enough or allowing you to taste-test the lager (like you don’t know!). And the consistency goes all the way to the top; even the manager is on autopilot niceness. Scary.

Aside from a few niggling food issues, Elk Bar is lively cauldron of sociability. The genial staff, the 1am license and the garden patio make it equal parts bar, pub and club (a ‘plub’ perhaps?). And the lack of any tangible competition in the area - Havannah (rough), The Slug (for kids) – means queues around the block. Eh, mate?