The writer is the City editor at FT Alphaville and always buys his own round
The world’s best bar is the closest one. No martini, I’ve often argued, is so much better than any other that it can justify walking up a hill. And while there’s something to be said for the value of comfortable seats, charming service and sympathetic lighting, their absence can easily be compensated for by four to six more martinis.
Lots of people disagree. Before 4pm on a Friday, ahead of opening time, the queue at the Connaught Bar in Mayfair is already 30-deep. Most of us, by my estimation, are out-of-towners. A high incidence of bumbags, cargo shorts and sensible shoes bespeaks pinball tourists hitting every target on a list of London must-visits.
Such is the price of celebrity. Since opening in 2008, the Connaught Bar has maintained a credible claim to be the best in the world. And while the David Collins-designed room is optimised for crowd control — three segments creating individual spaces that feel neither too small nor too big — the namesake hotel’s reception area can sometimes resemble a holding pen.
The Connaught hotel in Mayfair
