Sketch

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