The Elusive Camel

27 Gillingham Street, Pimlico, Victoria, London, SW1

Pssst, want to know a secret? Come close because this is undoubtedly one of those ‘best kept’ secrets you occasionally catch wind of. You see that Elusive Camel? Well, it’s not what you think it is. Or what it WAS, to be more precise. Patrons who previously watered at this establishment might well be inclined to opt for words like ‘trough’ and ‘den of iniquity’ when describing their erstwhile experiences. Yet, if you go down to the woods tonight you’re in for a big surprise because The Camel of yore is but a distant and elusive memory. Thank Gord!

Back in the year of our recession - 2008 - VPMG came along and changed everything, forever. If you’ve never heard of VPMG, it’s neither an acronym to describe an uncomfortable underwear situation nor the latest multi-national bank to fall foul of said recession. No, VPMG is a consortium whose primary business concern is the waving magic wands. If you’ve witnessed the swanky Pigalle Club, or the equally ritzy Bloomsbury Ballroom, you’ll understand the level that VPMG works at. With The Elusive Camel, they’ve turned what was a metaphoric Sean Bean into what is a metaphoric Sean Connery.

Gone are the estate hoodies and grubby construction workers who finally broke The Camels back. Stepping up to replace them are yards and yards of tailored-made suit, armed with company credit cards, astutely hatching tomorrow’s deals during their midweek confab.

Pre-Pacha clubbers take ownership of the weekends, posing amongst the standing-room-only tables outside, sporadically venturing back in to witness the House the DJ built. Gone are the salad days of quasi-Walkabout notoriety, when beer taps and picnic benches were the norm.

So, what would you rather do? Hang around with be-jandaled Australians shouting obscenities at a TV bracketed to the wall, cursing a sport you don’t really understand, OR sink slowly into a low-slung, leather sofa before engaging in some prime time social networking with your colleagues? If you answered the former, the Wetherspoons up the road is more suited to you, sonny, because here at The Camel you’re expected to behave and dress responsibly. If not, the enforcer will eject you politely from the premises and you’ll never be privy to such sophistication again.

This new way of thinking has filtered into the drinking, too. Beers are practically a thing of the past and The Camel proudly presents a cocktail list that speaks your language. It knows you like the classics but also knows you’re a risk taker, so promises expansion on the familiar. It’s also aware of your frugal nature, and has deals, deals, deals galore. It even knows when you’ve got an important meeting tomorrow and, correspondingly, sets aside a non-alcholic ‘Elusive’ signature drink. What a caring list. Impeccably presented every time, hardly missing a beat.

Sadly, boys will be boys and all too often the elder statesmen of this micro-society are seen ordering exotic drinks such as Grolsch Extra Cold. Wow! Chaps, sort yourselves out. Expand your horizons. Let go of the lager, embrace the veritable tome of new and enticing flavours on offer. Do yourself a favour, put down that pint and release yourself from the shackles of tradition and conformity. Stride proudly up to the bar and order a manly berry Caipirinha. You life will enriched so.
The golden hue of the Polish Martini is the dawn of a new day captured in a glass. The ginger ale of the Mango Bourbon has a soothing medicinal piquancy and so surely must be good for you. The milky Brandy Alexander is liquid Tiramisu and is easily the best way to bookend your evening.

Oh, and the wine list ain’t half bad either.

The Camel’s transient crowd slots nicely into ‘post-work’ or ‘pre-club’ categories and this isn’t a venue for ‘having a sesh’. Not unless your sesh falls between the hours of 4 and 7pm, when cocktails are £3.50 a piece. If your weekend likes to start early, then watch out for the dangerously funky Thursday nights, when it’s almost mandatory to get your groove on before 9pm.

Although the name might suggest otherwise, The Elusive Camel is decidedly easy to locate and its proximity to Victoria Station is brilliant for that last-train-home dash/stagger. Plus, the neighbouring competition poses practically no threat whatsoever, with Wetherspoons bearing the brunt of beer brigade.

The Elusive is not an upper class cocktail bar, but it certainly maintains a healthy position amongst the semi-detached, broadsheet-reading, kids-in-grammar-school upper middle classes of the libation world.

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Strongroom Bar

120 Curtain Road, Shoreditch, London, EC2

Curtain Road: that draped veil of extravagant amusements, suffocating the ability to easily decide which of its multitude of options is best suited to your needs. It is the Bohemian ying to the capitalist yang of Liverpool Street next door. Although the name Strongroom might conjure up images of cider-sponsored chambers - from within which Jodie Foster polishes off yards of apple goodness in order to be deserving of her freedom - the reality is much more externally-focused. Strongroom adds to Curtain Road’s myriad colours and flavours, which, in turn, keeps the mood-swapping citizens of the Borough quite happy. This is undoubtedly one of the liveliest stretches of tarmac in all of London, after all.

Strongroom isn’t immediately obvious. It shies away from neon arrows that lead the way into debauchery. Instead, it hides, set back from the street, lurking in a car park. The bar itself is busy, decoratively speaking, with texture and tone splashed around in the same manner as a class of 5 year olds when the teacher has momentarily left the room during ‘art time’. Yet, oddly, it’s simultaneously bland and boasts all the mystique of an Eastern European student bar, circa 1980.

The split level arrangement produces a quasi-club affair downstairs, utilised on nights that fall on the smiley side of Wednesday, but at all other times is a lounge room for the socially inept. Why? Because those freaks should get themselves outside instead, where Strongroom really shows it muscle. Strongroom is all (or mostly) about the courtyard/car park. Curtain Road is met by a curtain of ivy, turning the car park into a stage for the players entering from stage left throughout the evening. Sadly, seating is at a premium. Therefore, be wary of backing vehicles when standing, and be ready to pounce on the nearest picnic table if some innocent fool decides they cant wait for the toilets any longer.

Speaking of toilets; the facilities display a rampant love affair with the aural arts as the walls are daubed with scrapbook tears from pop’s bygone eras. On one wall is a young, nude Ozzy Osbourne, on another the pre-split Blur pose impishly for Melody Maker. Strongroom clearly got an A for GSCE Music (there are affiliations with a recording studio of the same name) and aside from the themed nights and time tunnel toilets, there’s a dazzling jukebox on the wall which, judging by its shine, doesn’t get used nearly enough. Despite this exhibition of musical madness, there’s a considerable, and tangible, lack of music. The music is inside, and the people are outside. Move the speakers and they could quite possible do without the interior altogether.

A brief word about refreshments; there’s really only three words to remember: burgers, burgers, and burgers. Juicy, succulent and, without doubt, the only territory worth venturing into from an uninspiring menu. This menu does just enough to ensure you pick the same option on repeat visits. The only glimmer of hope outside of adding mozzarella to your burger is perhaps the swordfish or, at a stretch, the Italian Job which includes two types of animal and is ironically reminiscent of a burger, only without its bun.

The liquid format of refreshments is lopsided. The ‘Classic’ (read ‘conventional’) cocktails are bettered narrowly by the wine list which, in turn, is beaten by the spirits for the silver. However, head towards the bar with your beer goggles on and suddenly the world seems a much clearer place. Strongroom is to beers what Heidi Fleiss was to prostitution. It doesn’t quite reach the ridiculously range of The Rake in Borough, but the bottled range does promptly force your hand to rest squarely on your chin, give it a thorough rubbing, before pronouncing your best ‘hmmmmm?’. Ignore the Vedett - wretched stuff - and instead make your way through the mind churning Maredsous, the cleansing crystal Sam Adams Boston Lager, and the Autumnal Old Hooky bitter, a Blighty speciality. Be careful when downing more than a couple of German Blondes, though, because they’ll leave you credulous in the face of the many Big Issue sellers and street scroungers who circulate every 20 minutes.

The service at Strongroom is razor sharp and empty glasses don’t dare to linger for very long. The staff have a look that reeks of getting high on your own supply, which isn’t to say they take illegal substances but more that they probably prefer slotting into the Strongroom revelry once their shift finishes instead of chipping off home.

Mystical occurrences take place within the walled garden of ivy. Bizarrely, husbands happen upon their wives on their way home from work, both drawn there separately by some puzzling magnetism, neither having no real reason to be there in the first place. It’s also a place where the witching hour occurs dead-on half passed nine. Prior to that time, it’s a graveyard of whispered conversations about the Bishopsgate offices and how great it’d be to go to Glastonbury if only The Boss would sign that bloody holiday request, the bastard! After 9.30pm, the College of Cool nearby must get out of class because a 1980s jumble sale suddenly emanates from the night riding a fixed wheel bicycle, looking as though it’s just off to the recording studio to make its next album. The mysticism is so intense at Strongroom it might be advisable to save choosing your lottery numbers until you arrive because Gaia is certainly gambling the night away. Chance and fate dance a merry jig in the shadow of a moonlit car park whilst JJ Abrams takes notes in the corner.

Overall, the only reprehensible aspects of Strongroom are its lack of indoor atmos and the trying (they do try) elements of food. The excellent choice of beers plus the oddly endearing back-to-basics Berlin exterior help it to maintain the exciting vibe of the area. If only there was a blank cheque that could procure the remainder of the car park; then it would be a really strong hitter.

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The King's Head

1 The Green, Winchmore Hill, London, N21

From whence did this sovereign of saps, this majesty of clods, this artless folly-fallen knave with nary betwixt his ears, cometh? He, whom in days of yore, hath bequeathed his crowning temple to the fulsome Borough of Enfield? For presently, thither shalt thee cometh upon a tavern that bears the name, the King’s Head.

Ah, the language of our forefathers is great. Innit.

Tis true, the King’s Head is not a rare name in the world of public inns but for the one in question here, the royal theme is substantially appropriated using topiary on the balcony, decorative coats of armour, ‘Kings’ and ‘Queens’ privy facilities, and a grand double-sided fire. All that’s missing are a few slumbering wolfhounds and a gratuitous throne. Oh no, wait, hold that thought. There IS a throne. There, in the corner. A large, humongous, GARGANTUAN throne positioned in full view of the contemporary court jester: Sky Sports News. No doubt the royal court came hunting round here way back when; and regal affluence is still very prominent today.

This King’s Head is part of the Geronimo Inn dynasty that’s dotted throughout the capital. Always a favourite with Fluid (see also Oval’s Fentiman Arms and The Eagle in Shepherds Bush). TVs are a rarity for this family and it’s almost as though the distance it keeps from its Central London cousins gives the King’s Head a bravado that might spell civil upheaval.

The contrasts don’t end with the diversion box, either. Unlike its Geronimo counterparts, the King’s Head is very palatial and warrants TWO (!!) sets of toilets. It’s partitioned areas include the ‘rude’ room - you’ll find out - and a hirable upstairs section that, with its own toilet, kitchen, bar and stage, is almost as well equipped as the Fluidfoundation offices. Roy Scheider said it best back in 1975 when he looked over the side of his fishing vessel and saw a large Great White shark giving him the evil eye. In this analogy, London is the ocean, the pub acts as the boat, and the hungry shark is represented by the circling hordes of thirtysomething suburbanites; meaning, Roy Scheider is the publican (if only!)

Despite boasting the spacial capacity to swing an entire pride of lions, being big can have its downfalls. Just ask Jaws. Big can also mean draughty and if there’s a briskness in the evening air, your Sea Bream and braised fennel will tend to shiver whenever a smoker opens the rear door. And judging by the frequency of such a chill, there must be a lot of smokers in N21.

There are elements that stay true to the Geronimo brand, however. There’s the requisite earthy tones, the book shelves filled with paraphernalia, and the ample beer garden fitted with an array of seating options; one of which is a former stable replete with sofas and a plug-in-and-play iPod facility. Fancy that. Fancy, that.

Sadly, the prices have also been stolen from Central London and you should only venture this way if (a) you’re scared of postcodes starting with ‘S’, or (b) Winchmore Hill is close to your abode; in Scotland.

For those that crave the hearty English fare of our forefathers, this is an atavistic eatery. The word ‘steak’ appears pretty much next to every animal on the menu. For those that require invention and exotic ingredients, the trains back into London are fairly frequent. The presentation of the food is 9 o’clock news - fair and emotionless - and without the perky peppercorn or rambunctious red win jus, it would seem like the food equivalent of the BBC test card; a bland mash-and-ketchup face with a body of mushy peas.

There are a few service issues that need addressing: such as, not providing water in jugs that even Katie Price would envy; not delivering the side dishes 5 minutes post-main; and not encouraging customers to play the game of Guess The Freshness with a bowl of piping hot, yet suspiciously soggy, chips.

The kitchen’s aptitude for creating young chips is roughly on a par with its precise timing, as demonstrated in this equation: if one medium-rare steak is served scolding hot, how hot is the chicken supreme and asparagus? If your answers are luke warm and cold, you win a trip to the King’s Head because temperature discrepancy is something they’re good at. Similarly, the sticky toffee pudding, although equally delicious, could wear a warmer coat.

On the happy side of the fence, the garden and the wine list are lip-smackingly sexy and the latter is the lovechild of a Master of Wine; yes, with capital letters! It includes the inimitable Wild Rock; a delight whether you’re on the red or white, meat or wine. The duet of guest ales sitting alongside the serried ranks of routine lagers and ciders is further proof that this is the countryside. Near enough.

The principal three Cs of Geronimo are entrenched deep inside the King’s Head - community, community, community - and its neighbours on the village green are mostly dry cleaners and delis. This sort of commuter belt is almost a fashion accessory. Comparative to the youthful competition down the road, the King’s Head has the monopoly on the upper-middle class nouveau riche: shaven heads and crisp shirts for the gentlechaps and ladies dressed to the nines, tens and elevens.

Overall, a roomy, tasty, genial walk-in refrigerator that’s perfect if you’re local or lost. Just don’t, under any circumstances, confuse it with the Queen’s Head down the road. The King’s Head is the physical embodiment of good natured hospitality whilst the Queen’s Head is as cosy as a fresh grave.

A’ight? A’ight. Nuff said. And tha’.

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Villiers Terrace

120 Park Road, Hornsey, Crouch End, London, N8

I've been up to Villiers Terrace, I saw what's a-happening. People rolling 'round on the carpet, biting wool and pulling string. You said people rolled on carpet, but I never thought they'd do those things.

So there you have it. Sort of.

For the benefit of those who aren’t familiar with Villiers, or indeed his Terrace, it was Mr Echo and his Bunnymen that apparently foresaw - and sang about - the whole matter way back in 1980. Only they weren’t entirely accurate.

The Villiers Terrace of today is brand new and shares none of the den-of-iniquity characteristics as mentioned above. On the contrary, it’s new persona is probably more suited to its previous moniker - The Princess Alexandra - as it appears fit for royalty. An ordinary public house is acquired and ambitiously reborn as a restaurant in disguise, so in keeping with London’s current trend.

A noticeable amount of thought has been processed in order to give Villiers Terrace an opulent waft. If it’s not sparkled, gilded, leathered, or exposed - surfaces, not clientele - then Villiers isn’t interested. The walls are a farrago of fads, boldly mixing colours, textures and prints and sullied only by some needlessly busy artwork. The prison cell toilets are also a tad rogue; tiny quarters, dark walls, barred windows up high. Even the toilet roll is positioned at a full arm’s length. Perhaps all this is in order to coerce customers into a swift in-and-out process.
The chap who designed Villiers Terrace had either just got back from a Swedish cabin retreat or had a peculiar fondness for the log lady in Twin Peaks because the bar area is nothing but wood, wood and more wood. There are certain scenes from Pirates of the Caribbean involving Keira Knightley and Orlando Bloom that perhaps have qualities more wooden than this, but not much else in the world would top it. Whole swathes of Brazilian rain forests were probably felled in order to create the back bar, the front bar, the bar floor, the bar fire, the bar tables and the sentry duty golden eagle perched on the mantlepiece, staring down with his big, beady wooden eye.

Thankfully, the obsession with timber doesn’t lumber on through the comestible trappings (and nor does the alacritous service). With the food, the owners have clearly piled into their Ford Transit - or Ford Anecdote, for the sake of poetic license - driven down to Camden Town, bundled the head chef of Market restaurant into the back of their vehicle along with a whole host of delicious livestock, and transported all and sundry to suburban seclusion where no discernibly tube stations exist within escapable distance. Imprisoned, the chef will see out his remaining days by dishing out lovely sticky toffee pudding after Gloucester old spot pork belly after devilishly good deviled duck liver. Ahhh, what a shame. Oh well, can’t be helped.

Some places go slightly overboard with their starters, thus shooting themselves squarely in the foot as reduced portion sizes would mean room left over for dessert and a second bottle of wine. Villiers is guilty of this. Come forth you toasted bread and piccalilli overloaded by plentiful ham hock terrine. Yes, you are delicious, but you’re light, flavoursome colleague - the Cornish crab linguine - will mitigate this gluttony!
Accordingly, also avoid the heavy meats as mains and scoot over to the pan fried skate with mini capers, samphire, and very, very, very smooth mash. Alternatively, the simple four-ingredient walnut, rocket, Halloumi, and butternut squash salad is appropriately garnished with sage (it being wise to try it, see). Smiling or general conversation are not advised for following completion, though, as toothpicks are a scarcity.
A word to the wise on the desserts: the coconut brûlée is probably the lightest sustenance, despite its mainly cream constitution. It’s diminutive size is comparatively more approachable than the mother lode that is the pavlova; a dessert so monumental it could pass as a main by itself. In fact, skip the mains altogether and go for the crab-pav starter-dessert combo; and save yourself 15 notes in the process.
The fairly uninspiring lager selection and total eradication of draught beers and ciders at Villiers seems odd considering the tendency towards outdoor seating. Meantime’s Pilsner is not an ale. Nor is Old Speckled Hen and Newcastle Brown when served from a bottle. However, what it lacks in bubbles it makes up for in stills. The spirits and cocktail lists are like Easyjet flights - plentiful and cheap - whilst the wine list is heavily occupied by the French with a healthy number of organics to ease tomorrow’s cranium. The pick of the bunch is Italian, however: a summery 2008 Verdicchio, which is as punchy and complex as a maze full of Mike Tysons.
Perhaps Villiers’ key feature is its beer garden. The front terrace is perfect for one thing only: diesel-hued romantic moments spent soaking up the carbon monoxide atmosphere of Park Road and marveling at the glorious vista of the Shell garage across the way. However, if the sun is still rinsing the pallid north London landscape early in the evening, attention should be averted to the unexpectedly expansive rear garden where the view of the W7 bus is thankfully blocked by a shield of cane and where a naked mirrored lady stands safeguarding the odd outdoor furniture. All that’s missing is a fairy light or two.
Make no mistake, Villiers Terrace is a summer venue. And possibly a ladies venue judging by the heavy emphasis on wines, cocktails, and queenly decor. That, and a complete absence of sport, howzat?!

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