An individual’s choice of drink resides close to their heart, or closer still, to an anticipatory and ‘knowing’ liver. My ‘preference’ is the much overlooked Moscow Mule, once punted-out club style in orange plastic bottles. A bang-on serving would constitute a regulatory 2oz Vodka, 2oz lime juice and 8oz ginger beer blend; enough to hit crikey nails through a standard issue WWII Russian helmet. But where to secure a Moscow Mule worthy of distinction? Look no further than the poshed-up Rummer Hotel.

To get there, swank off Corn Street onto All Saints Lane, then follow your feet until you reach ‘a man’ guarding a pair of black curtains. Nod politely and ease gently through the flaps. Inside, you’ll find it a darkened affair offering a mellow 20 watt ambiance, countering any initial trepidation. Don’t panic, after a cursory glance in your direction, enquiring heads will once gain ‘face down’ to muffled conversion. The luminous bar will act as a natural beacon to alcoholic requirement, so make your approach.

The Rummer won’t hold with noisy clientele, so curb all wailings if friends are in tow. ‘Stuffy’ you say? True. It smacks of a London gentleman’s club, although happily suffused with the supplementary ingredient of women. Adding to this mysterious air, you’ll find that this bar has ‘rules’. Rules, orbiting an odd world of ‘no hats’ and ‘no pointless screaming’. Fantastically retro, in an 1880s, let’s talk about ‘mining futures’ sort of way.

Once you’ve reached the bar and acclimatised, order your Moscow Mule - or whatever alcohol you need for that matter. Make up a name if inclined, the staff seem trained somehow to understand whatever gibberish you puff a them. A few minutes later, the requested elixir will be place before you, in my experience, by a tall thin man (possibly a ghost) or a young lady wearing thick armed spectacles (possibly from Hoxton).

On this particular night, I could personally vouch that the cocktails drank were excellent, “well tended and mixed with the requisite ingredients”. I know this because I wrote it down on a napkin before sinking into a state of near depravity. I also clocked the menu. Vodka? Lots of - Whisky? American, Scotch, or ‘World’ - Brandy, Yes - Gin, plenty of English - and Rum. So much Rum confusion quickly sets in. Is it decent to flirt with a 15 year old Barbancourt? Or would life be easier to straight-out, sell-your-soul to the devil himself for the 63% Wray and Nephew’s Jamaican? Wine? Five reds and five whites can be ordered, by the glass. Lager drinkers, don’t expect anything that can be stolen from your local newsagent. There’s even a rumour soft drinks can be bought.

As you may surmise, this joint is independent and proud of it. Proud and expensive in the bargain - whatever tonics pass your lips at The Rummer, your going pay for the privilege of navigating through those black curtains. The average rum will set you back anywhere from £2.50, upwards to £15 a shot, for a snifter of 25 year old El Dorado. For the run of the mill pub crawler, take your usual drinking prices and tack on an additional London-esque 20%. The Rummer shuts at 1pm weekends, giving you plenty of time to drink the menu through, go broke in the process, and civilise yourself in a world of quiet inebriation. Word from the wise, mind the step on the way out, it made me look like a right twat every time I cocked out for a cigarette.

www.therummer.net

Paul Lever