Peacock Bar

148 Falcon Road, Clapham Junction), SW11

Blokes the nation over will instinctively recall, with great aptitude, the televisual advertisement that was created by the Carlsberg beer company in which it was claimed that if said company were to start promoting nightclubs, “they would probably be the best nightclubs in the world”. [PING - on go the lights in the male mind] This utopian vision offered a world where mawkish doormen admired grubby footwear, where bright stylish interiors were populated exclusively by ravishingly beautiful robo-women getting their collective groove on, and where waiting for a taxi was as likely as prohibition. But everyone knows that Carlsberg is probably not the best beer in the world - not by a long shot - and if they were to ‘do’ nightclubs they would probably be a little bit like The Peacock. Actually, a lot like The Peacock.

The Peacock is probably not the best bar in the world - not by a long shot - but it does serve Carlsberg (probably), the doorstaff are wholesomely cordial, and the disco interior is populated almost exclusively by women ‘attempting’ to get their collective groove on. Which means, chaps, that this critique is pretty much over as far as you’re concerned. There’s beer and the ratio of lads to ladies is about 1 to 4, therefore it IS the best nightclub in the world. Or at least in Clapham Junction. So let you now go forth and reprezent da brotherhood, good sirs. Sidle up to the bar, place a firm angular elbow uponst it, and with a rakish wink of your eye show these fine fillies what first-rate fettle you’re in. If you are arriving in large groups, however, do so in timed pairs, so as not to arouse suspicion, only intrigue.

Right. Ladies! True, the Peacock Bar is literally on the wrong side of the tracks but it is still very much to your liking. It has already won various online awards, despite its youthful existence, and the reputation of its owner precedes it; he was part of the original (but now mostly decommissioned) Living, Dog Star, and Mishmash venues. This small, erstwhile English tavern is like wandering into the combined imaginations of Matt Lucas and David Walliams: very camp, very loud, and very gaudy with obvious interminglings between the “Yeh but no but”s and the “But I’m a lady” element.

Burlesque is as girly as hair dye and Maltesers, so let’s hike up our skirts, parade around in our undergarments, and get giddy with giggles and merriment before stumbling off to Infernos or the Clapham Grand, only to return an hour later after realising we were having a better time at the Peacock.

Peacock feathers, golden busts, tight corsets, nipple tassels, wobbly boobs, fleshy arses, 6ft projections of Cary Grant and Jane Fonda, and a pulpit - yes, a pulpit - from whence the DJ pumps out Katrina & The Waves, Culture Beat and a plethora of Roxettes, Banaramas and C&C Music Factories. This social experiment is absolutely meant for the fairer sex. This study delves into the correlation between ladies of the intoxication and their impenetrable forcefield against music from the 80s. That, and the rampant whooping that seems to signify they are having what is sometimes called ‘a good time’. For the gentlemanly sex, however, the novelty is nowhere near as prolific.

The stage is indeed a little low and hardly big enough to accommodate the birdcage and a water fountain needed for these gorgeous divas to pull off their Dita Von Teese moves. However, this version of burlesque/cabaret is not supper club. It’s much naughtier and spunkier than that; especially as audience participation is actively encouraged. The show is brief and would possibly benefit from (a) some Coyote Ugly maneuvers on the bar, (b) less songs, (c) more nakedness. Please. Pretty please. With tassels on. Once the shutters obscure the large windows and the ex-Lost Vagueness artistes begin their performance, it’s time for the peeping Tims outside to come inside because if you wanna win it, Raymond, you gotta be in it.

Saturday nights are very wild, very early, and well before the first act appears the entire venue is a few sherries to the wind. At this point the ladies start forming two queues: one to the lavatories and the other towards the lonely pole in the centre of the room. The dearth of ladies toilets (wee faster, girls!) is equal to the dearth of poles, and not the Eastern European kind (although that would certainly add a new dimension to this circus). The pole is very popular and many girls attempt to grab it simultaneously. As early as 9pm the first knicker-clad inebriate has mounted the pole and is displaying a whole a catalogue of wardrobe malfunctions, much to the delight of chortling onlookers. By 9.36pm, the first chap - must be an Aussie - attempts to mimic her. The most popular move is the ‘jump n spin’. Hair pulling, cat scratching and eye gouging may follow. Daniel Day-Lewis, get your tuxedo; surely, there will be blood.

The populous on this plain of pleasure, this tundra of tumultuousness, is mostly ferocious packs of hen nights, sometimes three at once. Some hens opt for modified wedding dresses that are so sexy they could stun a priest at 50 praises and there’s a healthy tally of people just milling around in their pants (some of whom really shouldn’t, not in public).

Whereas Saturdays are all about celebrations - birthday, hen, stag, office, all there, in its pants - the rest of the week is a subdued calm-before-the-storm café atmosphere replete with wifi during the day and 2-4-1 cocktail magnetism in the evenings; Ratpack crooning Thursdays and live opera Sundays. Nice.

Whilst we’re on the subject of bathing in a vat of liquid joy, the £7 cocktails are very quaffable - the Bramble being a particularly potent potion - and the early start of happy hour may have something to do with the level of fun that is clearly being had. The barmen can be occasionally surly so don’t look them straight in the eye, they can sense fear. Tip: the martini glasses are small and spillage-prone, so go large if there’s movement afoot.

This is probably not the best bar/nightclub/pub/cabaret show in the world, but it does display much potential. Once the balcony starts banging out the proposed classic Ibiza house and once the (minor) celebrity-compered poker nights have begun flipping decks and once the speed dating bonanza has properly landed, then, THEN, it’ll have much more to shout about than simply saucy Saturdays.

Babur

119 Brockley Rise, Forest Hill SE23 1JP

Innovative, sophisticated, modern: sycophantic descriptions usually reserved for the worlds of engineering, architecture, and the arts. If innovative, sophisticated and modern all went for counselling, then Babur would be their counsellor, without ever being remotely connected to Norman Foster, Damien Hirst or Isambard Kingdom Brunel. And that’s because Babur is simply a restaurant.....from the planet Totally Bloody Brilliant! Now how’s that for sycophantic? Any restaurant that has two enormous flags and a great big Bengal tiger stationed outside its entrance must be worth keeping an eye on. If you haven’t been there already, prepare your jealously cortex now. You will love this restaurant more than your own skin.

Housed in a nondescript part of Forest Hill, this modern Indian restaurant is the aesthetic equivalent of proven time travel. The (search engine friendly) ‘shag’ carpeting, criminally ugly wallpaper, and blindingly bright lighting arrangements of the quintessential Indian restaurant are conspicuous by their absence, replaced instead by exposed industrial piping, chic bare brick walls, and a lighting arrangement so mood-inducing it could calm a Bengal tiger, luckily. The addition of various modern paintings and objet d’art create a warehouse gallery effect that even Mr Hirst couldn’t innovate. It’s intimate, but not so much that you’ll end up marrying someone.

The smell as you enter has the essence of victory, as though you just won the gold at the aroma Olympics, but don’t be fooled into thinking you can just dive straight in. This sort of triumph requires some effort on your behalf and if you arrive during the busy 8-9 slot, you need to bring a good book; you’ll have a wait on your hands. And under no circumstances should you surrender and leave. That would be like leaving your kids at the playground. How could you, you beast?!

The process here is leisurely. Although the atmosphere is perky - and although the staff glide around as though preparing a scene from Cats - nothing is ever rushed, thus rewarding you with the time to appreciate everything that is put before you; even though there’s a ruddy great queue of book readers in the foyer, each licking their lips in anticipation. Let them wait, they’ve been here before, they know the drill! The time between dishes is just long enough to acknowledge that the chefs are indeed cooking everything as fresh. There’s no boil-in-the-bag 9-minute wait here.

The service is legendary and involves the construction of a temporary table next to your own so that the impeccably affable and well-mannered staff can calmly introduce each dish as though it were a guest at the ball: “Ladies and Gentlemen, The Right Honourable Bikaneri Macchi, accompanied by the Right Delicious Spiced Oil and Mustard Mash.......The Right Honourable Makhni Chooze escorted by the Her Royal Creaminess Tomato Sauce....” And so and so forth.

In accordance with the contemporary decor, this isn’t standard fodder from our eastern friends. There’s spice, but in a subtle way. This level of quality doesn’t rely on turning your tongue to carbon in order to give it a sense of flavour. If its tendencies are Asian, then it is most certainly British bent (search engine friendly). There aren’t reams of the usual kormas, masalas and vindaloos (although you will find the essential lamb-based biriyani and shank favourites). This menu - both of them, the normal one and the specials one - has hake rubbing fins with deer rubbing antlers with buffalo rubbing hoofs with a decent selection of veggie options: the flaky noodle encasement surrounding the taramind and dried plum chutney scallops is a textured delight; whilst the Red Sandalwood ostrich starter arrives beautifully presented as a match-off between red and yellow swirls of sauce, the meat in the middle as the delicious referee.

For the mains, you cant go wrong with either the Hara Bara Kofta spinach and potato dumplings or the twice-marinated garlic prawns - on masala uttapam - which are so gigantic, so enormous, so tremendously colossal, they have their own gravitational pull. Namely, towards your open maw. Warning: don’t be tempted down the nan and rice road. There’s just no call for it. Order a paratha for two for mopping purposes, and maybe, just maybe, the Hara Cholliya Te Paneer chick pea Punjabi masala with cottage cheese, thus saving enough room for dessert.

Speaking of which, three words: mango brulee orgasm (search engine friendly). OK, so only two of those words are actually on the menu but when combined with a glass of the recommended Orange Muscat Essencia........well, you understand.

Mains are priced in the low teens, but if you’re lucky enough to be under 7 years of age, you can (a) eat for free on a Sunday afternoon, and (b) pat yourself on the back for discovering this website at such a young age. Portions sizes throughout the meal are perfectly poised and there is no overt encouragement to stuff oneself to the point of insanity. There’s enough mileage in the flavours to easily carry three courses. Add to that a bottle of the Kim Crawford Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc and job done. Incidentally, the wine is the work of one Peter McCormbie. He who is the brains behind the wine lists at such posh magnets as The Dorchester, The Zetter and Villandry.

So, Forest Hill might seem like an effort to get to, but then Christopher Columbus knew better than to give up at the Bahamas. And why should Zone 1 take all the glory? Nosh gobblers literally swarm here and for good reason. Even the familiar way the manager chats and shakes hands with his customers spells warm and welcoming. Overall, faultlessly extraordinary and extraordinarily faultless. This is a whole other level of sycophancy.

Cafe Rouge Putney

200-204 Putney Bridge Rd, Putney SW15

Remember when Kevin Costner starts talking to his crop in the baseball movie, Field Of Dreams? Do you recall how a disembodied voice whispered something to him about “build it and they will come”? Well, Mr Rouge was clearly smoking the same corn on the cob as old Dances With Wolves when he made the decision to plonk his Café on Putney’s most lifeless stretch of road, right next to Laura Ashley. Whereas Costner’s baseball-diamond-in-the-middle-of-nowhere idea seemed to peak some interest right before the end of the movie, Mr Rouge’s idea shouldn’t have even made into the script.

Sure, Mr Rouge is known across the nation for his fantastic French fare - and quite rightly so - but the Putney Placement Decision was probably made the day after a particularly heavy ‘tasting’ session, possibly on a Sunday afternoon, just as he was having a nap, during which even his dreams were still drunk. It could be said that Café Rouge on the Putney Bridge Road has a certain rustic charm which counters the flashy, affluent riverside developments of the area, but then that’s exactly what Putney is: affluent and flashy. Were Mr Rouge to relocate to a property similar to the view-stealing Rocket restaurant, for example, things would look a lot rosier; or rouge. This is because it’s actually a very good restaurant. It’s just cursed by its bad placement.

If you’re looking for a place which offers delectable comestibles in an atmosphere that is slightly less vibrant than a graveyard, then this is your place. The music doesn’t really help matters, either; Chillout is probably not the best form of music if you’re trying to stop guests falling asleep in their Soupe à l’Oignon. If you’re adamant about eating the food - and you should be - but want to add a little bit of life to your meal, simply opt for one of the outside tables and enjoy the close proximity spectacle that is known as.....The Number 270 bus.

The interior feels a bit like an All Bar One with its wooden floors complimented by a cream and brown colour scheme. But then how many All Bar One venues can boast walls plastered with children’s drawings and a perfectly unnecessary brass revolving door? Hmmm.

OK, OK, enough with the chastisements, how about what’s really important: the food. If the decision to put the restaurant in its current location was a 1.5 on a 10-scale of brilliance, then the menu totally contradicts that, being about an 8.5. Superbly French cuisine that comes in one, and only one, flavour: rich. The French are about as good at making bland food as they are at NOT speaking in a sexy accent. It’s chains like Café Rouge and Chez Gerard that have actually stopped everyone on the south coast from moving to France permanently, thus averting a massive population-unemployment surge.

Many folk - mainly those born before time itself was invented - frequent Café Rouge for the steak. So alluring is this steak, that upon entering the establishment these people require no menu. They have one thing on their minds and if there comes a day when it’s sold out, they’ll leave and go elsewhere instead, as though the remainder of the menu didn’t exist. These people are traditionalist fools and should be forced to watch Kevin Costner’s entire back catalogue immediately. Not because they’re wrong about the steak - they’re not - but because they’re missing out the real top trump at Café Rouge: the seafood.

The succulent Loup de Mer sea bass is like wrestling with a duvet of clouds whilst lying on a bed of spinach, rocket and French beans. Equally, the Duo de Poisson crab claw meat with smoked salmon is like being tickled by all the creatures in the Bay of Biscay simultaneously. Yet the ultimate highlight on the menu has to be the Marmite Dieppoise seafood casserole, in which dory does battle with salmon does battle with mussels in a sea of buttery white wine goodness, with a wreckage of veggies floating on top whilst the good ship baguette attempts to rescue the remnants.

Before battle commences, the Champignons de Paris (mushies to us laypeople) calms the seas of war with a well balanced, creamy garlic sauce and raclette cheese topping. Alternatively - for anyone who thinks a course of skydiving will help cure their insomnia, for example - there’s the creamy Camembert au Four d’issigny Ste Mère, which roughly translates as ‘demonic voodoo poltergeist in a pot’. This dish should come with some form of health warning on the side, stating “Beware: eating this product will be enjoyable but you will never be able to kiss another human being again, ever.” Once the skin of this tomb has been pierced, all the fumes of Hades ascend up your nostrils and the only way to pull the creature into line is to dip the accompanying celery into it, devour maniacally, and sporadically quench your thirst with the distinguished, apricot flavours of the Turckheim Pinot Gris d’Alsace (only 17 notes per bottle).

Desserts: again, the most courageous amongst the harden eaters will want to attempt a scaling of the Pavé de Chocolat, as recommended by the cunning waiting staff. This huge, moist walnut and chocolate monstrosity comes with melted chocolate ganache and vanilla ice cream and, after a few mouthfuls, consumes its victim as much as it is being consumed itself. The sensible option is to try the Trio de Crème Brûlée. This is the French equivalent of ordering tiramisu in an Italian restaurant; it’s just what you do. Plus, with this dessert, there’s the added bonus of playing the game of ‘guess the filling’ when the small pots of raspberry, vanilla and chocolate brûlée are sacrificed at your table. Ahh, poor brûlée. Oh well, cant be helped.

Overall, this Café Rouge gives off a vibe that screams ‘help me, help me. I’m a prisoner in my own home. I will cook my way out, if need be’. Perfectly capable and yet sadly overlooked. When the conversation five tables away can be heard quite clearly one suspects there might not be enough custom. If it makes it through the other side of the recession, it deserves a new place of residence. Remember those three key words, though, Mr Rouge: location, location, location.

Chino Latino

18 Albert Embankment, Lambeth SE1 7TJ

My dearest darling Chino Latino,

It troubles me so that we should be apart for so long. I shall never forget meeting you for the first time the other night. I recall how excited I was as I wandered along the waterfront from Vauxhall station. Before we even set eyes on one another, I remember gazing over the Thames at the majesty of Big Ben, admiring the architectural prowess of the London Eye, and pondering what secrets lay behind the Mi6 guarded fences. All this put me in a speculative mindset - “What will Chino Latino be like?” - and, I must admit, I first thought you might be of Spanish persuasion, what with a name such as yours.

How wrong I was. You were much bigger than I had envisaged. Your bar was enormous and as easy as an airport lounge, but I stayed only briefly because I wanted to meet the real you, the restaurant you. I loved your look immediately. You were very swanky, well groomed and neatly framed with subtle hints of red splashed on your dark floors, dark ceilings, dark walls. Your oversized cream leather backing was lovely to lean on. Your dangling orbs shed just enough sultry light. Your long rubber-textured seating was luxuriously sexy and had I accidentally spilled something, I’m certain it would’ve wiped off.

I was a little disappointed by your tables; they were a bit on the small size. If we were meant to be sharing all this pan-Asian tapas, where was I supposed to be putting it? I was quite jealous of the larger, more secluded tables near the bar (used when a group of people all come at once, I’m guessing?).

I was also a tad disheartened by your window view: a fence, a train track, and a rubbish skip. Surely you deserve better? I understand why you try hiding your blemishes with that thin drape covering, but aren’t you more suited to the first floor viewing platform next to the river? Why shy away at the back of an uninspiring hotel when you’re obviously the best thing about it?

Your general appearance definitely pleased me, though, and the spread you laid on for me was equally compelling. Each slice of that yellow tail sashimi had its own eye of chilli and hat of coriander. It felt so sinful to eat and yet so right, as well.

Your menu was deliciously flawless; your presentation, immaculately conceived; your sizes, satisfyingly perfect. I loved how your raison d'etre was to share. Does ‘Chino’ imply your Asian heritage and ‘Latino’ confess your secret tapas style?

You started me off with your humongous measure of edamame - filling enough for two people - and your crispy hoi sin duck with cucumber was enjoyably tactile. I love to play with my food. To follow, you openly displayed your black cod and it simply fell apart, melting in my mouth. I’m glad it was served right next to me. If I’d had to reach across the table to get at it, I would’ve surely made a mess.

Your steak on hot rocks flirtatiously caught my eye, too. I loved the way it sizzled and steamed on a bed of bamboo. Oh, how delightful. It reminded me of an ornamental stress garden and I longed to just stare at it in total tranquility. The delicate serving of baby pak choi and the spoonful of jasmine rice only added to my ecstasy.

And then you gave me your just desserts. And my, it wasn’t just desserts. It was the dessert platter. I thought a rainbow had just exploded right in front of me. Every exotic colour and scent my mind could muster, all cradled in ice. I’ve seen fruits such as these at the supermarket before but I’ve always been too afraid to try them. I’m glad you were there to hold my hand.

Our evening was made even more special when you wooed me with your hooch. It was so caring of you to start me off slowly with your pink, lychee Virgin Momo. But as intoxicating as it was, the lack of alcohol left me craving something stronger. I admit, your signature champagne-and-juice cocktail made me a little giddy and perhaps a teeny bit giggly. And the sight of your muscular wine list got me all a fluster. From the buttery Puligny-Montrachet Louis Jadot to the velvety spice of Hawke’s Bay Vidal Estate Syrah, you certainly get around. And around. And around. And around. And having nine types of sake and three types of house wine in each colour, that’s just showing off. Your cocktails were certainly Latin in spirit, too.

I find it very interesting that you chose to shack up in a hotel. Or that the hotel chose you. You seem so....so....so specialised, so niche. Do you do continental breakfast for guests that stay overnight? I see that you’re very active online, offering customers special deals through the week. That clearly makes you very popular. When I arrived at 7pm, I had you all too myself - which was nice - but I must confess, I preferred you at 8pm when you were busier and less like a library.

Although I loved every minute of our summer fusion encounter, I’d much rather we meet again in the winter, if that’s OK with you? Your dark colours, your alert staff, your soft, sensual lighting: they all spell ‘cosy up’ to me. You’re more than just a passing fancy for traveling businessmen, Chino Latino. Your my Chino Latino and you were my dream first date.

Love from your anonymous admirer