My dear friends,

the entertainment industry’s ongoing obsession with all things supernatural brings to mind Peter Lorre’s immortal words, uttered to my great-uncle Mike Romanoff at the open coffin of the late Bela Lugosi: “Shall we drive a stake through his heart just to make sure?”

If only, mes amis, someone would do the same to the producers of Twilight Saga et al! Those who share my view that teenage hysteria, blood and other bodily fluids make for a distinctly unsavoury cocktail, should try a place where you are guaranteed to be safe from the vampire hype – Garlic & Shots.

If, like me, you’ve unsuspectingly walked past its Frith Street façade for years , you can be forgiven – the interior doesn’t look like a restaurant either.

My first sight was of several emaciated goths sitting at rows of candle-lit, blackened tables. I briefly wondered if I’d stumbled into the kind of canteen the Spanish inquisition used to run for its junior henchmen. The smell from the kitchen could have been of a heretic Garlic farmer burning at the stake – this, as it happened, wasn’t too far from the truth.

G & S’s founders, the brothers Olsson  from Stockholm, have come up with a dining concept that is extremely (but, perhaps, not so refreshingly) simple: “As you leave the restaurant, you should fell like you’ve been Garlic Marinated.”

‘Fell’ seems to be the key word here. The levels of seasoning of the asparagus starters, burger mains and ice cream desserts are ferocious, indeed.

Lovers on a romantic first date, beware: Should you progress past the first course, you and your paramour are likely to ooze beurre d’ail from every pore for the rest of the night. Still, you’ll have the consolation that the anti-bacterial properties of your Garlic Marinated secretions will protect against most known STDs.

After dinner, it’s time to retreat to the downstairs bar for a digestif. Naturally, the cocktail list – actually a collection of just over 100 different shots – heavily relies on G & S’s favourite ingredient. The Vitlökshonung, a garlic-honey brandy, instils its aroma by sheer power of suggestion – there (really) is no need to taste it.

Drinks and ambience go hand in hand. If, in the course of my research, I have found myself many times in the bowels of Soho, this surely must be its appendix. The harmonies produced by popular chamber orchestras like Slayer and Megadeth are said to be good for the digestion and, if the charming bar maid is to be believed, actually break down the molecular structure of garlic’s Allyl Methyl Sulfide through acoustic pressure alone.

A tiny side bar contains a life-size wrapped mummy, an unnecessary prop. The dark alcove is oppressively constricted – one more shot and you’ll feel like the hero in Poe’s ‘Premature Burial’.

Whether a panic attack or the rapidly falling oxygen levels force you to surface, a small garden area at the rear offers the health-conscious patron a little breathing space to have a calming fag. You’ll notice a warm feeling of kinship with your fellow punters, no doubt due to the crammed space, familiar perfume and the throroughly good time everybody is having.

I, for one, will definitely be back for more.

Your

Max Obolensky

 Nearest Underground: Leicester Square

*

Amis des beaux arts,

“Choose a job you love and you will never work again.” If Confucius’s words of wisdom were translated into Latin, they would make an apt motto for the house of Romanoff – especially the part after ‘and’. In these times of austerity, what could be better than combining business and pleasure? With that thought in mind, and sure of our family’s artistic flair, I enrolled in the Candid Arts Trust’s life drawing classes.

Alas, the craft isn’t as easy as it looks. Despite the best efforts of Meredith (the most patient of tutors) to steady my shaking hand, I found myself having to tear up drawing after drawing without making the slightest progress. When, at last, the steam cleared from my spectacles, it was time to join my classmates at the adjacent arts café. Here, the over-ambitious maestro (a species suspiciously abundant in that part of North London) can shed his artistic dunce cap and drown his pretensions in a fine glass of Red.

I must admit that I like few cafés as much as the Candid. Virtually the first place I set foot in when I arrived in this great city many years ago, it has lost none of its cosy charm. Relaxing in the comfort of its plush sofas, with good company and even better drink, life’s woes seem very distant indeed.

The food is excellent and reasonably priced – curries, stews and fish start from £6.50.  The drink selection is down-to-earth, yet arty enough to attract a good number of Shoreditch virtuosos busily discussing self-published novels and the merits of colonic Sheng-Fui.

A banquet hall and pleasant courtyard for alfresco refreshments complete the picture. Leaving aside the creative merits of its clientele, the Candid truly excels in that most important of arts – that of living.

Yours as ever

Max Obolensky.

Mes chers amis,

Readers of my recent review of the Candid Arts Café will know that the love of fine art is woven into the very cloth every true Romanoff is cut from. While the last century has rarely seen a time when a member of our family could afford the genuine article, my great-uncle Mike Romanoff had the good fortune to examine many masterpieces at very close quarters.

At the end of WW2, Uncle Mike returned from the European battlefield aboard the Queen Mary alongside 15,000 of his comrades from 101 Airborne Division. True to his noble blood, Mike had distinguished himself in the field. For many months, shouted obscenities, near-constant fire, dirt and vermin had been part of his daily routine – he was in charge of the company canteen. It was an experience that would stand him in good stead when he founded Romanoff’s at 326 North Rodeo Drive, Beverley Hills.

Quayside on New York’s Ellis island, a large marching band awaited the returning warriors together with three dozen Blondes, courtesy of the famous Powers model agency. When the girls released a cloud of coloured balloons, our affection-starved veterans promptly replied with several thousand fully-inflated condoms.

Stepping off the boat, Mike was in for another pleasant surprise, in the shape of his old friend, film director John Huston. Huston wasted no time and took Mike for a welcome drink at his favourite bar, Moriarty’s on 58^th Street.

Over their drinks, Mike recounted enthusiastically his visits to art galleries in Paris, Rome and London.

“Geez, I don’t know about that, Mike,” Huston said. “But they’ve just opened the greatest cat house right here in New York, better than anything in Rome or Paris. What do you say?”

Mike, recently engaged to beautiful Gloria Lister, was reluctant. He agreed when Huston promised him a treasure of impressionist art into the bargain. A phone call and short taxi ride later, they arrived outside an imposing building on Park Avenue. Huston pressed the bell and a long-legged Brunette in a French maid outfit opened the door. “Oh – Mr Huston. What a lovely surprise!”

The maid led them to a most elegantly furnished drawing-room and served their drinks. Huston casually pointed to a Renoir on the wall. “This is a top-class joint, you understand. The Madam is famous for her girls – the most beautiful on the East coast.” He winked at Mike. “All services rendered – but she ain’t cheap!”

Mike was examining the painting with bulging eyes. “I can imagine – a genuine Renoir!”

“Well,” Huston said, lighting one of his trademark Panatellas,  “I hear she has this famous collector in her clutches. Pays her with the occasional impressionist. She’s even got a Monet hanging over her bed. You should see the wall – she gets so much action, the picture frame has smashed holes into the plaster.”

At these opportune words, the Madam herself stepped into the room. Petite and exquisitely dressed, she extended a hand which Huston enthusiastically kissed.

She turned to Mike. “I’m so excited to meet you, Mr Romanoff,” she purred. “We do have the occasional Royal personage amongst our guests, but nobody quite of your standing. Can I offer you anything?”

“Well,” Mike replied. “I’m sure this place is clean enough but I’d rather not give anything nasty to my fiancé. I just came over to have a look at the Renoir. Where are the ladies, anyway? I suppose all busy upstairs, banging their brains out?”

The Madam looked at Mike, horrified. It was at that moment that a grinning Huston introduced her formally – she was, in fact, Nin Ryan, New York City’s most sophisticated socialite.

I remain your devoted

Max Obolensky

*

My dear friends of Dorothy,

I duly report back from that fine London institution, Pride. Reflecting on an immensely colourful and well-organised march, your author was baffled –  just when will the advertising gurus at Fullers brewery wise up to marketing their ‘London Pride’ ale alongside sponsors Coca Cola, the Trade Union Council and the mayor ? It’s a winning idea if ever I had one, and I’ll be sure to claim my (liquid) royalties in the near future.

Fighting the good fight is thirsty work. After 200 yards of ceaseless marching, I decided to top up my rapidly evaporating fuel reserves at a nearby pub. Now, the occupational hazards of the bar critic are many, and it is sometimes difficult to turn down a drink or two from a well-wishing bar manager. I will therefore be forgiven for having come ‘under the weather’ (as the Irish have it) rather too early in the afternoon. It is my only explanation (and excuse) for having wandered into Sketch, a bar of such complex beauty that its landlord found it necessary to provide written instructions.

On entering, I was informed that the place would revert to a ‘members only’ arrangement after 9pm as this would “…ensure that we are able to develop and maintain our unique ambience as a place for like-minded, creative individuals.”

Deciding against offering Groucho Marx’s wisdom on clubs and memberships, I made my way towards the bar. This proved far from easy as it turned out there were six of them, bearing names such as ‘the lecture room’, ‘the parlour’ and ‘the glade’. I settled for the latter to peruse the above-mentioned instructions.

As it happened, these were only intelligible to people of my own level of intoxication. Using a lot of poetic prose, they contained gems such as

“…when the midnight hour approaches, tables and chairs are brushed away to allow movement and dance that comes when music infuses the room…”

and

“…you will find a dining hall of such magnificence, it will so take your breath away that your face will be a certain hue…”

This deluge of poetry immediately had the promised effect. My breath was taken away and my face rapidly changed its hue. It was time to vigorously brush away the tables and chairs, and quickly make for the salle de bain lest I should deprive the dining hall of its magnificence.

The toilets, then, were a revelation. I mean that quite literally as, once locked inside the egg-shaped contraption, a mixture of whale song and Battlestar Galactica sound effects transported me onto a new level of awareness – that of wasting my precious time in a poncy bar.

In my despair, I turned to the one object amongst the space cadet paraphenalia that looked familiar. It bore the comforting words Armitage Shanks. With much regret, I put it to good use and threw up the afternoon’s carefully assembled collection of free drinks.

On my return, it was time to start afresh as I’d decided to give the place another chance. Trying to take in the truly bombastic interior, I dimly recalled its creator, entrepreneur extraordinaire Mourad Mazouz.

Remembering the other examples of his handiwork (‘Momo’ and the aptly named ‘Derrière’ in Paris) I pondered the chances of his dreaming up yet another shining example of understated elegance. Indeed, if Borel’s chimpanzees were given enough time at their typewriters (and if they had been refused entry to design college and won the Euro lottery) they would probably come up with an interior not a million miles away from Sketch.

Turning to more practical matters, I decided to consult the cryptically titled UNEM RAB. It took one of my more sober companions to point out that this was ‘bar menu’ written backwards, a device of such wittiness the designers must have spent many difficult hours over it. As my friend pointed out, ‘you can only read it when you look at yourself in the mirror’. Incidentally, this seemed to be the favourite pastime of much of Sketch’s clientèle.

True, the house of Romanoff has seen better days, a fact which, on this occasion, was reflected in my attire. I therefore bear the staff no grudge for not wanting to serve me, and made my own way to the bar.

Torn between the bewildering array of drinks and the knowledge that (according to the poetic instructions) one needed ‘plenty of coins in one’s pocket’ I found myself in the same situation as Buridan’s undecided donkey, doomed to starve between two perfectly good pails of hay.

Luckily, another line from the users’ manual had stuck to the fly paper of my inebriated mind, namely, that this was ‘a Brasserie of Light.’ Of course – a pint of Light was the one drink that would offer some consolation to both liver and wallet. Alas, the staff were unwilling to serve Light, in pints or otherwise. Mild, Brown Ale and Milk Stout were equally unheard of, so the only (if unsatisfactory) solution was to make do with a tiny £5 bottle of Japanese lager. Maybe the PR department should change the description to ‘a brasserie of Dry.’

Soon it was time to decide whether the conflicting interests of credit status, thirst and rapidly waning attention span would warrant another drink.  Unable to reason myself out of this tricky corner of my mind, I had to consult the instructions once more. Tellingly, I came across a sentence that adequately summed up my experience:

“All I wish is that you arrive with an open mind and imagine, if you will, a painting that never dries.”

In my humble opinion, mes amis, this is the one area where our bold entrepreneur managed to exercise some restraint. Sketch is perhaps the capital’s only bar that is even more satisfying than watching paint that never dries.

I remain faithfully yours

Max Obolensky

My dear friends,

Alas, the fleeting dawn of youth! Gone are the days when a night out in our beloved capital would cause no worse damage than the faint memory of having exposed myself to a parking warden. Sadly, these days my hangover nausea reaches the dizzying lows ordinary mortals only experience when suddenly confronted with a picture of Simon Cowell.

In such dark hours of the soul, one must look to mother nature for a remedy. When, last Thursday, the final pain threshold was crossed, my only recourse was to turn to homeopathy. Inventor Samuel Hahneman’s ingenious method – let like be cured by like – could have earned the house of Romanoff billions, were it not for the permanent cloud of alcoholic vapours that obscured my ancestors’ foresight.

Applying Hahnemann’s highly scientific principle, it was imperative to immediately get pissed again. Luckily, in what can only be described as a meaningful co-incidence, my old friend Billy Chainsaw had remembered to add my humble name to the guest list of that most health-giving of establishments, the Horse Hospital.

On arrival, your slightly unsteady author was relieved to notice that the 200 year-old venue has retained the original access ramps designed for the quadruped, complete with herringbone cobbles and hardwood slats to stop tottery hooves from slipping.

Downstairs, relief was soon administered. Behind a partition in the small hall, a kindly and knowledgable bartender immediately recognised the miasm that caused my symptoms and served the necessary remedy in the correct dilution (Ethylene 5C, or to use its pharmaceutical name, Becks 5% ABV).

In the best British tradition, treatment was free and open to all; although I soon found out that this was courtesy not of the NHS but of Bizarre magazine’s CUT!, a monthly film night featuring gory B movies.

Bizarre’s presence also went some way towards explaining the barred windows and steel tethering rings on the wall but, with hindsight, these have probably more to do with the old stables than the magazine’s pre-occupation with bondage.

After the screening of Eaters – Rise of the Dead (an extremely graphic and enjoyable experience) and several doses of the natural hop product I felt much better, and ready to face the grindstone of another night’s imbibing.

The Horse Hospital has hosted the best (and worst) of contemporary art, film, literature and music for over 17 years. But, true to the history of this fine venue, it continues to provide a robust cure against that most modern of ailments – ennui.

Your grateful patient

Max Obolensky

http://www.thehorsehospital.com

*

Mes amis,

I have nothing but admiration for my British friends, who, unlike my own people, value their monarch. I must confess, though, that during the Royal Wedding festivities their hysteria proved too much. I found myself siding with that tiny minority of the population who have become weary of Germans masquerading as royalty, and began to think that if I hadn’t been born the whitest of White Russian émigrés, I probably would have made a good bolshevik.

How lucky, then, that on the day in question my old chum Vic Godard invited me to get away from it all and see him and his chamber orchestra perform some classic pieces in the plush surroundings of the Lexington.

Located in the suburbs near King’s Cross, this music pub is the perfect hide-away for the staunch Republican – it is as un-British as Foghorn Leghorn in Stetson and spurs. Downstairs, the designers of the aptly named saloon bar have borrowed heavily from the cat-houses of the Old South but, sadly, stopped short of providing the belles.

The Lexington’s extensive drinks menu cites Abraham Lincoln’s famous tribute to beer brewing, surely his finest sentiment after the abolition of slavery (how disappointing, mes amis, that 150 years on his nation hasn’t quite got to grips with either notion). Be that as it may, the presence of 14 American ‘ales’ is more than compensated for by a fine selection of over 40 Bourbons, some (like the Weller 19-year-old at £55 a shot) so rare that even your favourite Romanoff had to take note (and double-check his credit status).

A short but distinguished cocktail list sticks to stateside favourites such as the Mint Julep and Old Fashioned (not available at busy times due to its truly old-fashioned 12-minute preparation time). Their above-average quality and alcohol content quickly wiped the £8 price tag from the slate of my memory.

The real revelation, however, is the upstairs music venue whose gritty honesty harks back to London’s musical heyday when combos like Department S and Subway Sect plucked their harmonies in front of an enraptured audience – as, indeed, they did on that memorable occasion (Fuck The Royal Wedding – A Night of Treason).

Similar musical titbits can be sampled on a weekly basis, alongside a fine-sounding discotheque downstairs. Further highlights are Sunday’s ‘Hangover Lounge’ (an essential service that should be available on the NHS) and a ‘Rough Trade’ pop quiz on Tuesdays.  Add a spectacular 2.00am closing time on weekdays (extending to a sight-blurring 4.00am at weekends) and this extraordinary pub has gathered enough qualities to truly soften my feelings towards our old cold-war playmates.

I, for one, am sure to become a Lexington regular.

Yours as ever

Max Obolensky

Céad Mile Failte, my friends!

“Oh, while a man may dream awake, on gentle Irish ground…”

Having lived in exile for many years, I feel a deep affinity with my homesick Irish chums, who, in London’s concrete desert, must feel like fish out of water.

Indeed, a man can suffer a fate worse than homesickness – thirst. But just when the outline of an Irish inn hovers on the polluted horizon, the wanderer’s delirious senses are tasked with telling the mirage of the Irish theme pub from the true green oasis.

Worry not, my friends – you can trust your stout-seeking instincts. The Toucan, just off Soho Square, is a genuine (if a little murky) Irish watering hole. Alas, long gone are the days when my old friend, legendary landlord Buzz, entertained his thirsty flock behind drawn curtains until daybreak – when an enforcement officer with the zeal of the Black & Tans violated this innocent haven twice in quick succession, Buzz was banned from the premises and reduced to deliver beer kegs to the edge of his own door step.

These days, under landlord Colin, the opening hours are more conservative but the venue has lost none of its rugged charm (of which, I should add, none is more rugged than the toilets’). Venture into the tiny cellar bar and you will still discover the three things that make the honorary Irishman’s eyes (and mouth) water – Guinness, oysters, and whiskey.

Guinness, or as the Reverend Iain Paisley has it, the devil’s buttermilk, flows from eight taps at above average quality, and price (£4). Should you also have the proverbial luck to obtain a portion of the rapidly sold-out Galway oysters, a celebration really is in order.

For this purpose, the pub commands one of the finest collections of rare Irish Whiskeys this side of the Grand Union Canal. Whether you fancy a little of the old Connemara Peated, a Limerick Slaney or even some Knappogue Castle, Colin will happily oblige.

For an even more special occasion, better-to-do connoisseurs may try to impress their paramour by ordering a ‘very rare’. But hold your horses (advice that also applies in the whiskey-induced throes of passion, my friends!) – a single measure of the 42-year-old Tullamore Cadenhead will pilfer a hefty £50 out of the cavalier’s hedge fund, with no hope of a European bail-out.

Finally, for fans of rare rock music, the Toucan offers an attraction far beyond the fleeting charms of liquor: In 1966, at an impromptu performance in the downstairs bar (then called “Knuckles”), the undisputed King of Rock’n’Roll made his London debut – Jimi Hendrix.

Slainte, my friends

Your

Max Obolensky

My dear friends,

I report back from an enforced winter break with a renewed sense of optimism. Not only is Her Majesty’s government firmly coming to grips with the wishes of its people, I, too, have re-asserted some stern control over my affairs. I will forever be grateful to my tax advisor, whose Houdini-like level of skill (only surpassed by that of his fee) has once again saved me from the workhouse. Should the event that we all long for materialise, he is sure to become tax advisor to His Majesty the Tsar.

When, at the beginning of this week, the weather at last matched my spirits, I set out for a stroll in sunny Kensington Gardens, a journey that was bound to end (as it, indeed, did) at the nearby Tirolerhut – London’s most famous, if sole, Austrian restaurant.

Lovers of Alpine hospitality have to be doubly cautious. Having braved the descent into the basement premises (on a flight of stairs as treacherous as the slopes of Piz Buin), a delicate etiquette is called for. Those who want reconsider the Großglockner-steep price for dinner should ask the charming dirndl-clad Maitre-d’ if they can start the evening with a small aperitif in the rustic bar. In this fashion, one’s appetite can be stimulated indefinitely over Dortmunder Aktien beer on tap and a fine selection of mountain-herb flavoured Schnaps (only genuine with the single ‘p’, I must add).

A raucous time is assured, thanks to one-man-entertainment miracle Joseph, whose sonorous (if not always accurate) interpretations of popular concertina pieces whip up near-hysteria amongst the coach-loads of punters re-living January’s après-ski debauchery. What, mes amis, could be more poignant than (as happened on my visit) being proposed to on microphone, right after a yodelled version of ‘Blue Eyes’?

If one encourages Joseph further by dispatching liquor in the general direction of the stage, one can soon look forward to meeting the artiste in person. A cosy tête-à-tête over the dozens of photographs on the wall (dating back to the founding year of 1967) soon reveals how a talent like Joseph’s could survive over 40 years in front of fickle audiences without being fired – he is, of course, the owner.

Having thus satisfied your curiosity as well as your thirst, lean back and enjoy the acoustic climax of the evening: Joseph’s Cowbell Cabaret. During this ear-ringing treat, burglar-alarm versions of popular Austrian folk songs will become irreversibly anchored in your memory.

The late closing time of 2.30am adds to the popularity of the Tirolerhut. When it is finally time to make your way back up the slippery slope, you’ll want to glance back at an unforgettable evening and wish Joseph, as well as yourself, many happy returns.

As they say – ich habe die Ehre, meine Freunde!

Your

Max  Obolensky

My dear friends,

Readers of my recent article about the rediscovery of Troy will have an accurate picture of the prohibition-like conditions the committed imbiber faces in this great city of ours. Alas, the hardships that we Romanoffs have to contend with in the long years of our exile – present and past!

My late great-uncle Mike came up against the seemingly endless years of US prohibition. Unlucky punters craving a drink between 1920 and 1933 had to make do with speakeasies, those honourable establishments trying to evade the prying eye of the law behind the more mundane façade of the ice-cream parlour, diner or drugstore. This proved easier than expected – the US Congress gave their ‘anti-saloon league’ such a meagre budget that only 1500 prohibition agents were available to police 125 million parched souls. One agent, however, took on the challenge in spectacular fashion: Isidor ‘Izzy’ Einstein.

Uncle Mike met this staggeringly talented detective one night in 1923 at Moriarty’s, New York’s famous speakeasy on 58^th Street. Around one o’clock in the morning, as drinkers of all social strata toasted their good fortune with bad Scotch, there was a loud knock on the door.

‘Who is it?’ demanded the imposing doorman.

‘My name is Izzy Einstein. I want a drink.’

‘Slow down, buddy. What’s your business here?’

‘I’m a prohibition agent. My boss sends me.’

The doorman laughed and let him in. ‘That’s the best gag I’ve heard in a long time. Hey boss! This guy’s a prohibition agent. Says he wants a drink!’

Bar owner Dan Moriarty nearly burst his sides. ‘Anyone can say that. Come on, buster, let’s see your badge.’

Izzy coolly produced it.

‘What do you know – it even looks genuine,’ Moriarty said as he poured Izzy a drink.

‘There’s sad news,’ Izzy replied with his trademark phrase as he clapped the handcuffs on Moriarty. ‘It is genuine.’

‘You just don’t look like a government man,’ said a doubtful recruiting agent when Izzy first applied for a job. It was true – and the secret to his success. In his early 40s, bald and 5’6’’ tall, Izzy weighed a stately 225 pounds. His body mass was centred at waist level, making him walk like a majestic drake. Apart from English, he fluently spoke Yiddish, German, Polish and Hungarian and could make himself understood in French, Italian and Russian. He also had the rare gift to make other people trust him unquestioningly.

One night, at Reisenweber’s restaurant, he appeared in a tuxedo with a glamourous blonde girl on his arm. When he ordered two Martinis, the headwaiter cautiously asked for a reference. Izzy fished a business card from his waistcoat pocket but it turned out to be the one he had earmarked for the raid on a Jewish altar wine merchant. It gave his name as “Isaac Cohen – Rabbi.” Without batting an eyelid, the head waiter served the drinks. Izzy later said: ‘The guy deserved to be busted. Imagine a Martini-drinking Rabbi with a blonde – but without a beard!’

Another cornerstone of what he termed the ‘Einstein theory of rum snooping’ was Izzy’s choice of disguises. Wearing a porter’s white jacket, he once shut down a saloon opposite a hospital. For music bars he would play his trombone to suspicious door personnel.  In Coney Island, he entered a drinking joint in a wet bathing suit, shivering and gasping for a ‘cockle warmer’. Once he closed down six gin palaces in one night using his ‘docker stopping off for a nightcap’ guise, complete with a large glass of pickled gherkins. His repertoire included a violinist, a Polish count, a Texas rancher, a gravedigger, a French maitre d’, a travelling cigar salesman, a Chinese launderer and a Democratic party delegate from Kentucky – as the latter, he raided the 1924 Democratic National convention.

Izzy Einstein (left) and fellow agent Moe Smith

During his illustrious 5-year career, Izzy Einstein arrested 4,392 prohibition offenders and confiscated nearly five million bottles of illegal alcohol. My uncle Mike, whose  penchant for Russian vodka often saw him cross Izzy’s path, met the legendary agent shortly before his enforced retirement, once again at the re-opened Moriarty’s. New owner Jimmy Schenck was keen to avoid his predecessor’s mistake and plastered the bar’s walls with ‘wanted’ posters of Izzy’s likeness. One evening, a corpulent figure appeared at the bar and asked for Whisky. Schenck refused.

‘I don’t like the look of you. Haven’t I seen your face before?’ he asked.

‘Of course. I’m the famous prohibition agent Izzy Epstein.’

‘Sure, smart guy. Thing is, the man’s name is Einstein.’

‘My name is Epstein. I’m never wrong when it comes to my name.’

‘Your name maybe, but the bum you’re pretending to be is called Einstein. E-I-N-S-T-E-I-N. Got it?

‘Friend, it is Epstein.’

‘Einstein!’

They resolved their dispute like gentlemen – with a bet. Sad news – Izzy lost, paid for the double whiskeys he had staked, and took Schenck to the downtown jail.

Yours truly

Max Obolensky

Mes amis,

“Men wanted for hazardous journey. Small wages, bitter cold, long months of complete darkness, constant danger, safe return doubtful. Honour and recognition assured in case of success.”

Thus ran Sir Ernest Shackleton’s classified ad to man his famous 1914 South Pole expedition. The voyage proved to be hazardous indeed – his 300-ton schooner ‘Endurance’ was crushed like a beetle between two gigantic ice floes.

One would have thought that in the age of global satellite navigation such expeditions have long become obsolete. Lost Aztec cities, holy grails, Spanish galleons sunk by the weight of their precious load? These days they only exist in boys’ weeklies, you will object.

But you’d be wide off the mark, my friends. Because one treasure has so far eluded explorers from all corners of the globe – the affordable alcoholic drink after midnight.

Seasoned followers of these pages will hardly be surprised that a Romanoff had to embark on such an adventure sooner or later, its parameters (long darkness, bitter cold and doubtful personal safety) remaining unchanged since Shackleton’s day.

After thorough preparation at various West End base camps, I ventured into the long polar night of British licensing restrictions. On my frostbitten trail I encountered many magnificent specimens of that fabled urban giant – braving the cold, slow and ambling, yet ferocious – the British doorman. Their gruff replies all amounted to the same: refreshment was available, but would cost me a mortgage payment and, judging from the sound pressure of the ambience, the remainder of my hearing.

In a state of physical and spiritual exhaustion I finally staggered into the ice desert of Oxford Street. Suddenly I found myself aghast. In the depths of a small alleyway lay the remains of a long-forgotten civilization. Hot tears of joy unstuck my frozen eyelids as I shared Schliemann’s rapture at the discovery of the sunken city. From a first floor window, light flickered inside a long-closed speakeasy, now miraculously re-opened. It was the legendary place that once shared the name of Priam’s mighty fortress: The Troy Club.

In years past, it had pioneered a licence-law flouting scheme of bogus membership which would reward the exhausted adventurer with cheap refreshment until daybreak. Then as now, the mildly soused Brazilian bouncer was quickly hoodwinked by the Trojan Horse of my long-expired membership card. A final climb up the rickety stairs, the conquest of a vacant bar stool and an order from the affordable drinks menu completed my triumph over the elements.

To the tunes of a guitar-clutching David Bowie aficionado the hours melted away, whilst the Becks (at £2.50) flowed like water off an ice giant at the peak of the climate catastrophe. When it was finally time to turn homewards, I gratefully waved to my Brazilian friend who laughingly pointed to the faded sign by the entrance: “Only members are allowed to consume alcoholic beverages in this snack bar.”

What, my friends, could be more agreeable than being such a member, and of the oldest club of all – humanity?

Your

Max Obolensky