The Pink Chihuahua - Soho

25-27 Brewer Street, London, W1F 0RR

'The Pink Chihuahua.'

I did not expect him to say those words. Mark, a sickeningly likeable person who has crafted his passion for drinks into a business (see Shaken and Drinks Galore), sat there in a tweed jacket, with a handlebar moustache, and well kept hair. The Connaught Bar at The Ritz, The Admiralty Bar at The Grosvenor, The Colonial Club on King's Row, or some other plush sounding bar I'd never heard of and wouldn't dare set foot in. That's what I expected him to say.

The Pink Chihuahua? Wow. If I'd put money on what I wasn't going to hear, I wouldn't have come close.

It must be a wind up. Some drinks industry jape that would see me dragging my girlfriend to a bar surrounded by men in vulcanised rubber pants and peephole Pringles.

Ha bloody ha, Mark. What a hoot!

But even though I hadn’t know this guy long, I had no reason to doubt his tale. He seemed a trustworthy sort and had plied me with plenty of free alcohol. I mean, what else do you do when a man buys you drinks? It would rude not to trust him. Ruder still not to pay a visit to a dark basement bar, hidden beneath a Mexican restaurant in the middle of the Soho, guarded by a tall, slightly mean looking bouncer.

It helped that I’d met one of the bar staff a few weeks later too. He corroborated the story. It's a genuine bar, that sounded genuinely decent, and one that Mark genuinely liked. The tales must be true.

So that’s what we did. That’s where we went. Descending the steep staircase into the deep dark basement beneath El Camion on Brewer Street. Why? Because that’s where The Pink Chihuahua is. Why? Because after watching Fifty Shades of Grey, I needed a couple of stiff drinks to remove the memory of a film so boringly awful a corpse wouldn’t have the patience to sit through it.

This bar might not be the place for lovers of a trendy cocktail: those worshippers of the ‘speakeasy’, who don a Dick Tracy hat, cradle an old fashioned all night long, and who like their bars coloured beige.

The Pink Chihuahua is a colourful place. Stuffed full of character, characters, pink graffiti, giant cartoon skulls, and 90s music. One wall is completely devoted to tequila, as is over half the drinks list, with the rest made up of rum and cachaca. Old fashioneds, white russians, and a host of other drinks are on offer, but this is the place to come for ice-filled tumblers of bright margaritas and small neat shots of mezcal (to sip!). The character just doesn’t suit a deep dark spirit or, indeed, pretension of any kind.

And that’s the beauty of a bar like this. It’s fun and with it, relaxing. There’s not a hint of snobbery, not a measure of exclusivity (although it helps to be a member, as technically it’s a members bar). You feel as if you could ask the barman ‘how do you spell tequila?’ and go from there; a barman who elected to show me a video of him falling of a bar stool while trying to be courteous to an unnamed girl - clearly chivalry isn’t dead, but it could kill you. Very random indeed.

Like tequila? Check out El Nivel, Covent Garden.

El Nivel - Covent Garden

28 Maiden Lane, London, WC2E 7JS

A holiday is a perfect escape from the drudgery of working life. The wake-up, rush to squeeze into the stinking armpit that is the Northern Line, spend the day counting the seconds until your next coffee, kind of working life.

A day of travel, including a rush to squeeze into the stinking armpit that is an Easyjet flight, and you’re breathing the fresh air of the mountains, with skis strapped to your feet and a beer waiting at the bottom. Perfect.

The days of misery that preceded it - that tequila tasting evening; that 10-course meal at HKK with accompanying wines; that sort of thing - all forgotten in an instance. The only lingering memory, the faint taste of a trio of dark chocolate dumplings with yuzu and ginger infusion, and a glass of 2013 Moscato d'Asti, Vajra. Miserable memories, truly miserable.

A week later and you’re home. No more skis strapped to your feet, no more fresh mountain air, no more beer waiting at the bottom. A return to the wake-up, rush to squeeze into the stinking armpit that is the Northern Line, spend the day counting the seconds until your next coffee, kind of working life.

So to brighten the mood, it’s out for more tequila. That warming, happy liquid, crafted thousands of miles away from a plant that looks positively martian, grown in fields that look positively lunar. And where better for a glass than El Nivel, in Covent Garden.

El Nivel is owned and run by the folks wot own Ocho Tequila. A sparklingly light, fruity tequila that I could describe far better if I still have a glass in my hand, but some b*stard ran off with the only miniature I had. Either that, or I drank it and don’t remember - which is slightly worrying.

A two storey venue, El Nivel has a lively downstairs bar/restaurant and a far more sedate restaurant upstairs, perfect for a quiet meal and chat. The service was positive, friendly, considerate, with the barman offering to test cocktails out on us. Win, win, win, and win. Take note other places I have visited recently (but won’t name), this is how you earn your tips.

Now, if I was a good food blogger, I would have spent my time at El Nivel taking yard after yard of funky pictures at jaunty angles. I would then list the ingredients of every dish, following each description with one word...FANTASTIC...and probably six or seven exclamation marks.

I’m not though, I’m a lazy food blogger. So you’ll have to make do with some ropey pictures of a couple of dishes I took in the soft dim light of the restaurant, not a single one fit for Instagram and as far removed as possible from the picture I took of the trio of dark chocolate dumplings with yuzu and ginger infusion, and a glass of 2013 Moscato d'Asti, Vajra. 

47 likes and counting!!!!!! Read, weep.

I can’t remember the dishes that well either, but I do have some good excuses for that. One, I’d drunk quite a bit of tequila; two, I was with friends; three, one of them announced she was now engaged (or her boyfriend had smoked a cigar - I can’t remember how those two facts became so confused); four, I’m a lazy food blogger; five, and most importantly, it’s tapas.

Tapas doesn’t suit us English. It’s a cuisine suited to pushing, shoving, sharing, grappling,  and a strong set of elbows. I want to act like this, but my English sensibilities restrain me; leaving me sat with plate in hand, offering a dish to everyone that really I want to scoff on my own.

All of this politeness and plate passing creates confusion. Ultimately, you grab what you can (within the boundaries of reason) and don’t have time to take even a mental note of what you ate - so thank God for PDF menus.

The Tostadas de Atun ‘Luzia’ (the tuna) was possibly my favourite dish. Small cubes of cool tuna sat on a crispy tostada. A close second would be the chicken, goat’s cheese, and lime wrap thing. Served with a chocolate reduction, it was definitely a different dish, with a good dose of flavour. The same good be said for the guacamole. Not just a bowl of diced avocado, this had more fruit going on then you can shake a stick at, including some white squares of something that I still can’t name.

On the negatives, the pork cubes weren’t the greatest. Crisp on top, the fat underneath the thin layer was too much like jelly for my liking. The lamb cutlets disappeared without me noticing, which can’t be a good sign, as I did eat half of one. The pudding too: too thick and rich a chocolate moosse for a full glass, it would have really benefitted from being smaller and served with a nice fresh lump of ice-cream, or something similar to cut through that richness.

The meal ended with a glass of mezcal from QuiQuiRiQui (seriously, no spaces?) - a mezcal closer to the citrusy notes of tequila than most typically earthy mezcals tend to be, but no less delicious. 

Jesus, I clearly was listening during the tequila tasting a fortnight ago. Perhaps those miserable memories aren’t so miserable after all. Just another year of that rush to squeeze into the stinking armpit that is the Northern Line, spend the day counting the seconds until your next coffee, drinking tequila, and endless meals out, kind of working life, and I’ll be back on the slopes.

Red Dog Saloon - Hoxton Square, London

37 Hoxton Square, London, N1 6NN

London is a home-from-home for any rib chewing, pulled pork eating, spicy bean munching American. This unhealthily-delicious cuisine is now offered by pubs, street vendors a-plenty, and even the high street sandwich chains. The full 'US of A' experience, complete with buffalo skull, Budweiser, and bourbon, can be found at one of the four Bodean's venues - one of which is a mere fifteen minutes walk from home, luckily for me. Of course, with rising popularity comes a host of competitors keen to jump on the wagon train. Enter Red Dog Saloon.

Not being a fan of a monopoly - even one as delicious as Bodean's - I'm always willing to sample the wares of a newcomer...even if it does mean a tube trip to the opposite side of town. Red Dog Saloon can be found in Hoxton Square, a short throw from Shoreditch, which guarantees a crowd queuing at the door even on a Monday. We'd booked, so no waiting around for us. Until we ordered our food. Starters shouldn't be necessary when so much meat is on offer, but if the waiting time for your main course is creeping over thirty minutes the staff should warn you that an appetiser is a must. It did give us time to get mildly sozzled on a pitcher of 'Beverly Hills Iced Tea', which may have been the inspiration for the post-dinner tequila - something Red Dog has a nice long list of.

But when it comes to the crunch, be it Red Dog, Bodean's, or a.n.other BBQ house, ultimately no amount of decor, skulls, novel booze, or beer is going to make up for poor food. And unfortunately, the tasteless ribs even when smothered further in an equally tasteless sauce were a huge disappointment. BBQ is about punch of flavour. A faint-to-strong burn in the mouth of spice that has been stewing for hours (or days) combined with a sweet tang so common in all American food that you're willing to forgo pudding. There was nothing here, no spice, no sweet, just a sticky sauce that you were happy to wipe, rather than lick, from your fingers.

I'm sure somewhere in London there is an equal to Bodean's, but it's not to be found in Hoxton Square.