The Basement

7 Macquarie Place, Sydney

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A mate’s band, The Little Stevies, was playing at The Basement last Friday night, and the stars aligned when we looked through our deck of Bar Secrets cards and found the old darling represented.
Awww. The Basement. We’ve both worked in music in some capacity for the last three thousand years, so we have a soft spot for this joint. If you live in Sydney and have been seeing live music for any of the last forty years, there’s a good chance you’ve ended up in this venue at some point. The Basement is all about the music, which is lucky, really, as the toilets are completely mank. But more about that later.


For those about to rock, we salute you. And also drink you a little bit.

You can always find at least one of us near a crotch. 

GOT WOOD Located on the cusp of the CBD and Circular Quay, The Basement is just that, a basement. The main entrance used to be on Reiby Place, a laneway that became exponentially harder to find the more schooners you’d downed previously. These days, entry is via the more user-friendly Macquarie Place, with the addition of outdoor seating and a strangely incongruous upstairs bar. For those familiar with the existing Basement, you know that it’s dark, wooden, band-poster-riddled and awesome, but for some reason this homely decor doesn’t reach street level. The top bar is quite a contrast - light, open, sleek and minimal.

Also, sometimes the art emits an eerie glow.

 MOVE ALONG, PLEASE. Not being able to find a seat upstairs, we wandered down the ramp to the main downstairs bar, which is like boarding a submarine bound for rock (and jazz and soul and folk-country-fuzz-fusion). The first outstandingly polite and friendly staff member started his comely banter by telling us we’d just missed happy hour. Way to politely and endearingly deflate a girl, man. After our first (full-priced at $7.50) drink and a joyous appreciation of The Little Stevies’ soundcheck, another outstandingly polite and friendly staff member asked us to move into the side bar known as The Green Room, presumably so they could set the main room up for the gig. After a while, we decided to move upstairs to round out our review, where we were told by a third outstandingly polite and friendly staff member that if we were here for the show, we could move downstairs if we wanted to. Our bottoms were slutty that night, dear friends.

This is just the soundcheck. For the actual gig, he turns around.

THE GREEN ROOM This is a pleasant, woody space with two main features – a warm, close-quarters bar and a pool table. Consequently, it reminded us of our university years, such was our fierce dedication to the book-learnin’ arts. This is a quieter space than the main room, so it’s great for a pre-gig feed or to get to know the skinny-jeaned scruffy gent you’ve just been eyeing off between sets, but its main purpose is to remind us of Van Gogh paintings.

The Night Cafe in the Place Lamartine in Arles

The pool table bit at the Basement. UNCANNY.

UPSTAIRS We understand the need to diversify and perhaps attract patrons other than just music punters, which is how we explained the completely different décor and atmosphere in the upstairs bar to ourselves. Maybe they want to create a nice little cocktail bar that stands alone from the main room? Well that’s all fine and good, but THEY DON’T SERVE COCKTAILS. When the (outstandingly polite and friendly) barman said they didn’t serve cocktails upstairs, he was greeted with two very confused and hurt facial expressions. This is the part of the venue that screams cocktails. It makes no sense! If you’re going to just serve beer and basics, at least make it look the part so our expectations are met. After collecting ourselves, it was downstairs to the heart of the beast, and what a beast it is.

DOWNSTAIRS The thing we love most about the basement is that there are bill posters for bands covering every inch of the walls (and some parts of the ceiling), making it impossible to tell what colour the walls actually are. It’s like the history of music did a glorious wet-burp in black, white and go cat go. You immediately feel in the mood to see some music, and with not a window in sight, low ceilings and dim lighting, you instantly feel like you are in some bar in New York and someone should jump on the grand piano and play something dirty and... maybe that’s just us. The room is large and set up for patrons wishing to partake in dinner and a show, and anyone who knows us understands that we get a little silly over dinner and a show. Especially the dinner and show part!


YOU GLORIOUS BASTARDS The staff in this place are second to none, and perhaps this is one of the differences between a bar and a music venue. We don’t think we’ve ever seen a place with such a consistently genuine and heart-warming crew manning and womaning the decks. Patrons vary depending on who’s on the stage, but being mostly a music crowd, they’re often interesting, vaguely alternative and less likely than just about any other bunch of drunk people to cause trouble or get nasty (please see special subjects under the headings Licensing Laws, The Hoey, The Annandale, The Tote, et cetera ad nauseam). Right on.


CHOONS Wanna know what the music’s like at The Basement? Read your ticket, idiot. Sheesh. Do we gotta do everything? You can see performers at The Basement that you can’t see anywhere else, and it remains an absolute staple of the Sydney music scene, sometimes nostalgic, sometimes avant-garde. Bless it. Bless it a lot. Unfortunately, before the show started, a Sting album was playing over the sound system. We wouldn’t have noticed that it was a Sting CD, so unobtrusive was the volume, except that every two minutes or so, the thing skipped like crazy. You know what’s worse than listening to a whole Sting CD? Listening to one that goes “I’m an Englishman in New YOR-YOR-YOR-YOR-YOR-YOR-YOR-YOR-YOR-YOR-YOR-YOR….”.


THROUGH THAT DOOR, JUST FOLLOW YOUR NOSE The toilets are not good. It’s a bit like someone cut the toilets out of a bowlo or a rural airport and transferred them here. Except of course, we’re not sure that bowlo or country airport toilets have vending machines dispensing Wipe-On Sex Appeal in them.

Yeah. That's called "sweat" where we're from.

 Beige, ecru and off-white, the facilities are badly in need of a renovation, even taking our low standards into account. There are two cubicles in the Ladies, which for a venue that has live entertainment with gaps in between sets is like booking a stall at a Queuing Expo. You put two hundred people in a room with a show and some drinks, and you have at least fifty people waiting for a gap between sets to go to the toilet. It’s science.


AND THE NOMS ARE… There’s both fancy-schmancy meals and classic pubby-bistro meals available at The Basement – the former from 7:30pm, usually with a ‘dinner and show’ ticket, and the latter available most of the time. We opted for The Basement Burger and The Basement BLT from the Bistro menu, because we dig consistency, alliteration, and big fat chips.

B is also for Bacon and Blocked Artieries.

Delicious, massive, and we’d better add another kilometre to our jog next week. The only odd thing was that once you’ve ordered your Bistro food at the bar, you’re asked to check back in ten minutes to see if it’s ready and pick it up. This can mean more than one trip to the bar, and the first time we’ve ever missed those buzzy little light-up spaceships you get in other bars to let you know when your food’s ready.

Jeff Duff is still waiting for his Nachos.

The cocktail menu is short but sweet and fancifully named, sticking with a musical theme. You can get a Sinatra, Stevie’s Wonder, Coltrane Caprioska, Raspy Ella, Simone’s Sling or a Loneliest Monk. We took pity on the last one and almost ordered it, because LOOK! It’s ronery. Tricky little cocktails, taking advantage of our fondness for alcohol and kitten-rescuing. Manipulators!

Cocktail menu, AKA Saucy Minx Temptress

DRINKY DRINKY: LORIN Vodka Dry- I would just like to stress that my drink was served in a small tumbler. SMALL TUMBLER. I’d love to say that The Basement obviously reads our blog, but let’s be honest, they probably just know that dry = serious drinker, allow for easier access.

I'm happy because I have a small tumbler, and because the lights are squiggly.

Great mix and ratio of alcohol to dry. I wasn’t asked what Vodka I wanted, but in that sort of musical environment I’d almost accept the staff to tell me to shut up, and drink what I’m given. Rock. The staff were sickeningly nice so that would never happen.

Cocktail: While trying to pretend I was in New York I went with the obvious choice of a Sinatra. With lime and strawberries muddled with ginger and sugar, then shaken with Vodka, Creme de Gingembre and Framboise, it is lastly topped with Cascade Ginger beer. This was quite a good little cocktail, and although it surprisingly didn’t really taste much of ginger at all, it was still really smooth to drink, not too sweet and for $16 not a bad cocktail at all.

Frank's the one on the left.

DRINKY DRINKY: JO Gin & Tonic: My standard drink was crisp, as it should be, and too small, as all the good ones are. The barman asked me for my garnish preference, and then squeezed a fat wedge of lime into the gloriously ginny drink. Sip. Smack. Slap. Lovely.

I look surprised, because it's nearly gone.

For my cocktail, I had me a Basement Mojito – muddled lime, brown sugar, rum, mint and soda. A gorgeous fat glass, with not quite enough mint but certainly enough rum. After two sips, I found that the sharper lime notes gave way to the mel - HELLO I’M DRUNK. Cool, refreshing, and long lasting – exactly how I like my cocktails, ice creams and coastal breezes.

I look serious, because I'm about to fall over.

 While we love the basement for the music venue it is, as a bar that is to be compared with every other in our pack of cards, it’s not quite up to par. But to be honest, we don’t really care. We’ll be back, just as we have been time and time again. There’s nothing quite like The Basement.

Cheers, The Basement. Cheers heaps.

We’re giving The Basement two and a half bill posters out of five.

.

Zeta

Level 4, Hilton Hotel, 488 George St Sydney

Need to get up to speed? Click here. Feel the need, the need for speed? Click here.

We should start by telling you a couple of things:

1. Although we’ve both been here before, neither of us have ever arrived here sober before this visit. We’ve already been, how do we put it... alcoholically stimulated in the past, so it was quite a novelty to turn up with all senses alert.

2. We had a two hour window to visit Zeta, before rushing off to a Sydney Film Festival movie, followed by a poker, tequila and kazoo-jam session. None of this is really relevant, we just really need you to know how awesome we are.

YOU IS PERDY. The first thing to make an impression was the light. It was 5pm (Nanna Hour to some, Cocktail Hour to others. Us, mainly) so the sun was just setting, a nice time to notice how bright the space was compared to the moody dimness of the bar after nightfall, the only way we’d seen it before. Not really a massive stretch of the imagination when you realise that the main wall is made of glass. Remember: alcoholically stimulated. But everything about this bar is chic; from the walls of glass, to the tall ceilings, dark wooden decor, and polished floorboards. There’s also a multitude of seating options: weeny chairs and tables, a lounge area, bar, private lounge dens or out on the terrace. Being one of the coldest June weeks in memory, our first position was next to the massive gas fire, located directly below the wall hanging of a man’s head in a lion’s mouth. Let’s just throw that out again, this time with the capital letters it deserves: The Wall Hanging Of A Man’s Head In A Lions Mouth.

He doesn't mind the heat of the fire. He's already inside a lion.

YOU GIVE GOOD TALKY. The bar offers table service, and the staff were very friendly upon meeting us – seating us, asking how we were and taking the time to monitor how chatty we might be before allowing themselves to get enthusiastic. This, our dear readers, is one of the most subtle and brilliant indicators of great service we can find. If a customer doesn’t want to chat, diving head first into a spiel about the origins of a drink or the fascinating idiosyncrasies of climate is not really going to cut it. It’s a mark of a good host to gauge the level of commitment to one’s drink and to the vagaries of conversation. The floor staff were exclusively female and exclusively gorgeous, so it was a good thing they were all very good at their jobs. Neither of us are shy about getting our bitch on if and when beautiful people give us a reason to complain. It’s genetically programmed into us, because we own vaginas. No complaints, though. About the service OR our vaginas.

Okay, okay. I’ll stop saying ‘vaginas’. 

 THE BEAUTIFUL OUTDOORS. Although inside was nice, we felt like we were only at the edge of the action on our pouffes, so we took a trip out onto the terrace where most of the patrons seemed to be gathering. Being more pub inclined, we love a good courtyard, and we’d venture to say that this is one of the best that the inner city has to offer. The view is of the top of the Queen Victoria Building, the enormity and beauty of which can only be appreciated from above with drink in hand. How good is sandstone?

Lorin said "That's the money shot!" a total of eight thousand times.

Although it was a ridiculously cold night, we were able to take our coats off and sit and enjoy our surroundings, such was the efficacy of the heating. There are even trees up here, four storeys above the street, and if you’re careful to blink at just the right moment, you too can look like a derro in a park when drinking in front of them. All that’s missing is a paper-bagged drink and the slurred phrase “Wha-choo looging at, yegunt?”. Classy and that.

Not pictured: flagon and scent of urine.

The main drawback of the terrace situation was easily the darkness – we needed a torch to read our menus (and to take hilarious and insightful notes). Happily, we happened to have a torch with us. You come drinking with Lorin and Jo, you come prepared. We can sort you out with anything once we open our handbags – torches, bottle-openers, little pepper grinders, musical instruments. That shit is like Batman’s dream utility belt, but without the hammy acting.

The only way you can see a ninja is if they self-illuminate.

THAT’S POETRY, THAT IS The cocktail menu is possibly one of our favourites so far. This is just food, liquidised. Some of the drinks are so unusual it’s like they got a five year old with a spectacular palate to design it. With choice phrases like “Smoked bacon and maple syrup Manhattan”, “Pineapple and coriander martini”, “gin & tonic jelly” and “served in a baked and caramelised lime shell”, it seems that most of the cocktails contain stunning novelty elements that make them stupidly fun to choose from. The menu is extensive and awesome. Zeta provides signature drinks, classics with a twist, and then if you really can’t handle studying the menu, they also offer the classics. Something for everyone, including the excruciating temptation to sample everything and subsequently forget your own name and address.

 

YOU LOT. Being situated in an international hotel as it is, the crowd morphs gradually from obvious hotel guests to local dressy tipplers as the hours pass. We felt right at home to start with, but all of a sudden the bar became quite “sceney” and a lot of people were eyeing each other off to see what each of them were wearing. This is probably more of a weekend phenomenon than a weeknight thing, and we do have a theory that most bars in Sydney on a Friday or Saturday night are just hell by another name, but we weren’t overly upset by the fact that we’d be leaving before the still-vacant DJ decks were occupied and the inevitable gyrating commenced. The music that was playing while we were there was so smooth and inoffensive it was barely noticeable. It was there. It did its job. Next.

WEE, ETC. We both remembered the bathrooms as being a little cooler than they actually are. Located up some well-hidden stairs, the main redeeming feature is a communal boy/girl sink/water feature, and the wee sit-down-in-front-of-the-mirror nook is the cuteness, but beige walls and tiles make it a little bland. All very lovely, just not as spunky as the rest of the bar. The designers seemed to run out of inspiration, but happily not toilet paper.

Be careful not to wash off the awesome.

DRINKY DRINKY: LORIN Vodka Dry: When asked what kind of Vodka I would like, I said that I didn’t mind. This was partly a test - the bar is sponsored by Belvedere so I was guessing that is what I would get, and bingo. This in no way shape or form is a bad thing. Belvedere is like mothers milk. That stuff is so goddamn smooth it’s dangerous. I’ve never been one to drink vodka on its own, but I could definitely give that a shot. I did make a note in my book saying “might call my child Belvedere” if that is anything to go by.

Which obviously makes this photo more than a little awkward.

My vodka dry was sensational, the dry wasn’t too overpowering and the vodka was a dream. The one thing that did annoy me was the glass it was served in. I might take this time to have a little rant about glassware. It has become apparent to me that all of my vodka drys are being served in tall glasses, while all of Jo’s Gin and Tonics are served in tumblers. I love a tumbler and I don’t understand why I always get the tall glass. It’s not like I’m ordering a cocktail or something mixed with lemonade, it’s dry! If you order a Scotch and dry it’s in a tumbler, why does vodka get the raw deal? I’m just putting it out there - if it’s brown, it should be in a tumbler. I’m probably wrong, but I don’t care, that’s how I feel.

Imagine how the candle feels.

Drink number two was the Zeta Prohibition Iced Tea With A Screwdriver Side. Tipping their hat back to the sad times when alcohol consumption was illegal, they have designed a drink so ninja-like that it manages to include four different types of alcohol, while making it taste like iced tea. Not only that, they serve said genius in a jar... in a paper bag... on a plate. It’s a jar in a bag on a plate. The novelty of this has still not worn off.

I don't think you understand. It's a jar. In a bag. On a plate.

At first I didn’t quite get why it was served on a mini platter with two slices of orange, then I remembered that in the drink description there was supposed to be Belvedere vodka injected into them. Sneaky vodka, it was hiding in the orange the whole time! It’s like ultimate half-time. Novelty aside, this is actually a really nice cocktail, a bit sweeter than any iced tea I’ve had, but still quite tart, not bad at all.

Don't EVEN tell me you wouldn't have done exactly the same thing.

DRINKY DRINKY: JO See, with gin and tonics, it’s the little touches that count. And also the gin. And.. and the tonic is kind of important, too. As is the ice. Okay, that started badly. Asked my gin preference, I opted for Tanqueray, and the drink came in a gorgeously voluminous tumbler (sorry, Lorin) with the perfect amount of ice and a great wodge of ruby grapefruit as garnish.

The tights are the traditional McDrunk tartan.

Our waitress poured the tonic in front of me from a single-serving bottle she brought over to the table, which was confusing only because the final drink was a little flat.

Not actual size.

 I don’t know how you get a flat drink from a single-serve bottle of tonic, but I was too busy appreciating the perfect ratio, generous pouring and whimsical garnish to turn green and rip my shirt over a slight lack of fizz. I wasn’t given a straw, which I liked – proper drinkers want to get in there, lips and all. If I ever commit a serious crime, I’d like to think I’m giving forensics teams around Sydney a fighting chance of scraping my DNA off the edge of a gin glass.


For my cocktail, after scrutinising the truly glorious and tempting menu by torchlight for what seemed like half an hour, I settled on one called simply ‘Tokyo’. Choya (Japanese sweet plum wine) infused plums muddled and shaken with vodka, more choya and sake. It was both warming and refreshing, with both sweet and sour notes. Lovely. The selling point, though, was the ice sphere. Yes, class, the ice sphere. Intentionally referencing Japanese precision and understated sculptural elements, the drink comes not with crushed or cubed ice, but a goddamn, mother-freaking SPHERE OF ICE. An orb of frozen water. So round. So cold. So much joy. So tempted to drop it off the terrace onto George St. Which you should never, ever do.

Before.

During.

An astonishingly short time after.

To be the house bar of a hotel like the Hilton, you would expect great things, but Zeta is no ordinary hotel bar. This is a destination in itself. The crowd leave a bit to be desired, the bar itself is crowded enough to make table service your only option, and the terrace is a touch on the dark side, but the service is stellar, the décor beautiful, and the cocktail menu is a fascinating, creative and flavourful seductress with big boobs and a good bra.


In graph form, Zeta Bar looks like this:

See? It even looks like it's giving other bars the finger.

We’re giving Zeta Bar three and a half Jars-In-A-Bag-On-A-Plate out of five.

The Different Drummer

185 Glebe Point Road, Glebe

If this is your first visit, click here to see what the hell it is we’re doing. If you want to see a picture of a Wookie playing baseball, click here. It’s okay. You can do both.

Speaking of Wookies (nice), remember how awesome the whole Star Wars thing was before Jar Jar Binks brought his special CGI brand of suckage to the franchise? A good bar is Star Wars. Bad service in a good bar is Jar Jar Binks.

All the colours of the rainbow. Well, two of them.

 SHE’S A BRICK. HOUSE. The Different Drummer is a red hot spunk of a bar to look at. Drunkenly walking the tightrope between quirky and contemporary, it bathes itself in red light, bare brick, turquoise padding and artsy burlap, excusing itself to burp out a few endearing accessories. Really, of all the wall-mounted, three-dimensional, mirror-tailed peacocks we’ve seen, this one would have to be in the top five.

You may make your cock joke...       NOW.

This decor is ON like Donkey Kong. No, seriously. They have Donkey Kong. See?

 

You have to get the thing up the... thing. To save the thi- yeah, we've never played this game.

They also have a spiral staircase. Spiral staircases are like speed for us. BECAUSE THEY FUCKING ROCK!!!

There's a lady who's sure all that glitters is gold. And she's buying a cocktail.

A two-level establishment, the Drummer (see how cool we are? We’re on a second-name basis with a bar) has three sections downstairs (front bar, mid-section tables and back covered courtyard), and an additional two rooms upstairs, good for functions and being able to see. Downstairs is so dark you can barely see your hand in front of your drink, but we likes our drinking to be done in the dark. We don’t know if this is a comment on our self esteem, but it just makes us feel more willing to get amongst it. The darkness isn’t a problem unless you’re trying to take notes, doing arts and crafts or defusing a landmine. Luckily, we were only doing one of those things. We might be good at drinking, but we suck at multi-tasking.

Lorin and Kage order by braille.

 The red light boxes that run the walls of the establishment help with the visibility. Whoever doesn’t think that red is an amazing colour is obviously colour blind. You know what else is sexy? An illuminated fish tank. This bar just wants me to get it on and I haven’t even had a drink yet.

Sorry, but Lorin and the lighting concept would like to be alone.

DIGGING YOU LIKE A... YOU KNOW Now, in most of our reviews, we mention the music in bars as a kind of aside, using words like ‘unobtrusive’ and ‘background’. Not so for the funky Drummer – music is a feature, and a perfectly matched and joyously executed one. When we arrive, Triple J’s Like A Version compilation is playing, and then the DJ starts. A tiny DJ booth (and ‘booth’ is generous – let’s say ‘bit’) in one corner was used to magnificent effect with original vinyl crackly motown, soul, funk and jazz. Cat knew what he was doing, man, and Linda Lyndell clearly approved. Hands up who doesn’t like Motown? Oh, you don't? While it’s been a pleasure to write for you, I think this relationship has run its course and it’s time for you to leave. Now. No, just go.

Now look what you've done. He's packing up his ace choons and going home.

THE KIDS ARE ALRIGHT Clientele is primarily late-twenties Glebesque – fedoras next to puffy sleeves next to floppy ankle boots next to questionably necessary spectacles and stovepipe scruff – an interestingly groovy throng who probably know the definition of ‘irony’.


THE TOILETS AIN'T HALF BAD, NEITHER The toilets are black-tiled and red-doored, with possibly the most consistently roomy cubicles in Sydney. You could do high-kicks in there while you were spending a penny, if you were better at multi-tasking than we are.

NOSH ME BABY, ONE MORE TIME One of the most endearing things about the Different Drummer, though, is the food. Oh, sweet unicorns in space, the food is good. It’s all non-traditional tapas style, and arrives quickly, ready to be crammed first onto your table and then into your mouth. We tried the pan-fried potatoes with garlic mayonnaise (crispo-delicious), duck wontons with hoi sin sauce (cruncho-spectacular - you should probably know that these are little gifts from heaven) trevally & chive croquettes with wasabi mayonnaise (hot, tasty and yes I’ll have a bath in that mayonnaise please, my god how I love thee) and rare chunks of eye fillet with a blue cheese and vodka sauce. Jesus Marvin Christ. If sex tasted like cheese and vodka, this would be the most pornographic dish ever. Wait a second – sex does taste like cheese and vodka! Does... doesn’t it?

Yes! Yes! A thousand times YES!

DRINKY DRINKY
First things first: impressions of the two barmen on main drink-constructing duty. Very attractive gentlemen (although Bill Cosby is gonna be pissed when he realises one of his jumpers is missing). Both of them approached us to take our order, and we were a little excited to be served by them. This feeling didn’t last too long, as when we placed our order they just rolled with the punches, no chit chat, no nothin'. We’ve seen more warmth in a polar bear’s nipple. Fine, don’t make us think we have a chance, we don’t even care. FINE.


Theeeeen, one of them put the straws into our drinks with his fingers right over the mouth-holes. Yep. Anyway....

Have you ever seen Jo's impressed face? Yeah, this isn't it.

LORIN: Vodka and dry: Not a bad drink, they didn’t ask what kind of vodka I would like but what they used was quite nice. The dry was well balanced but on the weaker side of things. Squeezed lime, tick.

Cocktail: When we went to order our next drinks I decided to ask the bar tender if he had any suggestions, giving the man a chance to demonstrate his knowledge and skills while enabling him to talk himself up. The conversation went as follows: Him: What would you like? Me: What would you suggest? Him; (shrugged) what do you like? Me: Nothing too sweet, I don’t mind a bit... this is where I trailed off as the man then turned around to make our other drinks and did not listen. I thought maybe he would realise I had stopped talking and turn back around to ask me to continue, but no. At this point I turned to Jo and said “Well, I guess that conversation is over” and it was. WHAT?! What the F@#k is that about? He didn’t seem to be in a bad mood at all, that just seemed to be his style. He really just seemed like he had better people to serve than me. Ok, you’re attractive and can make a drink, this does not mean you have to be an arrogant twat.

These glasses are the warmest things in this photo.

Anyway, I ordered from the seasonal menu and got a Umbercue, which was muddled cucumber, Hendricks gin, lemon and tonic. I reluctantly tell you it was awesome. The bastard is arrogant, but he can make a cocktail. Not too sweet, ridiculously refreshing, and went down WAY too easily. This cocktail was so refreshing it felt like I should be out playing a game of tennis. If only you were allowed to smash the bar tender instead of the ball, I’d be set.

Pretty colours and an empty tip-tray.

JO: First up, my gin and tonic was really good – a barely perceptible sweet note pushing through cold, fresh sharpness with a wedge of lime. Serve that in a thick-walled, tiny glass crammed with ice, though, and you’ve got about three big sips’ worth. Drinks are very reasonably priced, but I still would’ve liked more for my money.

Must... get... more... up... straw.

The first cocktail I tried was from the regular cocktail menu - a Mexican Slipper – tequila, melon liqeur, lemon and pineapple juice. It was one of those cocktails that tastes non-alcoholic, so I could’ve knocked them back like water, pausing only to pluck the cherry garnish from its stem in that adorable way I do. Not too sweet or face-slappingly tart, the balance of flavours was just right. Speaking of face-slapping, our companion Kage’s Ginger & Apple cooler (vodka, ginger & apple syrup, apple juice, dry ginger ale) delivered a knockout punch with rings on. My last drink, and currently a dangerous habit, was a dirty gin martini, which was generous with everything including the olive brine, which isn’t always a good thing. Salty as hell, but otherwise fine.

Both cloudy and fine. And a little bit squiggly.

This bar does a lot of things well, and happy hour daily from 6 - 7:30pm, two for one cocktails is great value in anyone’s book. They don't just stick to the classics - they have a few sours and mexican delights to fill out the menu, and with the average price of a cocktail beng around $15, you can get quite a bit of value for yourself. All in all, decent drinks, gorgeous surroundings and incredible food were tarnished by snotty, couldn’t-give-a-shit service. When you feel like apologising to a barman for inconveniencing him by having the gall to ask for a drink, something’s wrong. We’d much prefer to go somewhere that made us feel welcome than go somewhere too cool for normal human interaction. With the simple addition of friendliness, the result would be vastly different. 

We should be scoring higher, but alas, we can only offer two and a half three dimensional wall peacocks out of five.



Pfffft. We said ‘cock’.

Hemmesphere

Level 4, 252 George St Sydney

That sign says "hemmesphere". That pose says "finger pistols".

Ladies and gentlemen, we are both devastated and delighted to announce that we might never, ever drink tequila from a bottle with a little plastic sombrero on the lid again. Mind you, we also said that once about wearing pleather, and look how that turned out.

Whatever. Hands up who likes tequila?

CELEBRATE GOOD TIMES. COME ON For those of you trapped under some kind of weird, non-alcoholic rock, you have just missed World Cocktail Week. Forget World Music Week or even Womens Health Week, this is the type of thing that really rattles our ice cubes. It should come as no big surprise, then, that when Merivale (the company behind Hemmesphere, Ivy, and a bunch of other Sydney bars) announced they were going to celebrate World Cocktail week, we obviously had to get involved. Each Merivale venue hosted a ‘masterclass’ based on a different spirit on different days of the week. Hello, genius. While you might assume that we would do the vodka or gin masterclasses, given our usual standard drinks, we threw a curve ball and decided to attend the tequila masterclass at Hemmesphere, the next card in the pack.

It doesn't take much to make us happy. About 350mls should do it.

OOH, I LIKE WHAT YOU’VE DONE WITH THE PLACE Hemmesphere is one of our favourite bars in Sydney – we don’t know if it’s the dark decor, the mismatched lounges, the stunning and friendly staff, or the large amount of pillows that make us want to run and jump into them like we were a 27.. 38.. er, 5 year old... but every time we visit we have a great time.

If these pillows could talk... that would be really weird.

 Being both classy and relaxed, like Clive Owen, it made us feel special and cool when quite clearly we are normally only one of those things. When the lift doors open and you enter the foyer, there is a host waiting to greet you and seat you somewhere comfortable, then have a little chat with you and work out what kind of drink you would like. See? Special.
On normal nights, cocktails at Hemmesphere will generally set you back around $20, which unfortunately we’re noticing is the standard price of a cocktail these days. For the quality of venue though, that’s pretty good. There’s food available from Sushi E if you get peckish, the quality of which should knock your socks off. Lorin in particular goes a bit melty in the face of expertly crafted canapés, and has a message for the resident head chef: Dear Ura San, marry me. If you would like to take a younger wife, I’m sure there is a long line offering, but I will happily glass my way to the top.

The music is ambient yet funky, with a variety of well known DJs in the Sydney scene on rotation. There is an awesome little courtyard, which on a warm night is unbelievable. You kind of forget you’re on the fourth floor of a building until you go out and see the lights and stars. The toilets are dark, some might say a little too dark, especially if you would like to check your make-up, but the decor and lighting do match the rest of the venue. My god, they’re the nicest smelling bathrooms we’ve been in, though.

WHAT? YOU’RE DOING THE WHAT NOW? A special area had been set up for the class, with tiny tables laden with tasting glasses (five each), a main table groaning under bottles of tequila and cocktail-making equipment, and a projector and screen for educational purposes. We don’t know if you’ve realised by now, but we take our drinking pretty seriously, and this set up just about gave us an unnatural physical response. For our entire high school and university careers, we couldn’t understand why all classrooms didn’t look like this.

Let me play you a tune.

This is how it went down:


Class hosts:


1. Sebastien, Hemmesphere’s incredibly polite and attentive bar manager. You haven’t lived until you’ve heard Spanish words pronounced with a French accent. Dude nearly turned himself inside out.


2. Shae, a ‘tequila specialist’ and hornbag. Officially, he represented Herradura, the tequila sponsor. Unofficially, he represented a smile and a wink in our pants. In fact, one of the only truly serious conversations we had all night was a debate regarding the fabric of Shae’s trousers. Conclusion: probably not leather, but really quite, quite shiny.


Teachy Teachy. Shae fired up the projector and taught us everything we ever wanted to know about tequila. We’re going to let you in on a secret: the more you pay, the better tequila is – you can use the same principle when choosing sourdough bread or hookers. Honest. And you know what? It’s actually really nice. For example, we didn’t know that the older, darker stuff can taste like spiced chocolate or oaky vanilla, or that orange and cinnamon is a better deal than lemon and salt. Or that the phrase “I don’t like tequila, is there any wine?” makes us want to poke forks in the face of whoever utters it. Or that by projector-light, Shae’s buttocks look exactly like two ripe... sorry, FOCUS. Focus.

We didn't get a close-up, because we don't like to share.

Cocktails. We were given three cocktails each during the class, a practice that we have no objection to whatsoever.


1. El Diablo – tequila, crème de cassis, lime juice, sugar syrup & ginger ale with a lime wedge garnish. Quite sweet, with a subtle tequila flavour. Not bad, but nothing to really write home about. Because of course we always write home about drinking. Dear mum, pissed again.


2. Margarita – tequila, Cointreau, lime juice & sugar syrup with a salted rim. Obviously a classic, but this was the best bloody margy we’ve had, ever. They got that shit sorted, although being a high class booze joint, you would expect Hemmesphere to get it right. There was a suggestion that, to cater for those who don’t enjoy the salted rim, only half of the rim should be salted. To that, we say that if you don’t like the cheek-puckering slap of a salted margy rim, you should perhaps go see a doctor about the puny size of your testicles.

Robust.

 Speaking of body parts, we’ve heard before that champagne saucers were originally modelled on Marie Antoinette’s breast, but we were newly informed that a margarita glass is modelled on Margarita’s boob. Testing that theory, we also learned that Margarita might need to invest in a better bra.

We like to express ourselves.

3. El Chino – tequila, port, sangrita mix (in this case grapefruit juice, agave syrup, coriander and chilli) & lemon juice with a grapefruit zest garnish. We’re pretty sure this was delicious, although the phrase “Man, high-quality smashed is so good” was uttered by Jo at this point, so there really could’ve been anything in the glass. Except stem strength.

I been eating me spinach. A gig-gig-gig-gig-gig.

Canapes. Throughout the class we were given some canapes which were prepared by Sushi E, a restaurant which shares the floor with Hemmesphere. Prepared by head chef Ura, these were just little bits of heaven sent to us – pawpaw with blue cheese and salmon roe, kingfish sashimi with Thai dressing, and a fat, apostrophe-shaped garlic prawn on a crispy wonton.

The sensation you're currently experiencing is called "saliva".

 Delicious as they were, there were only three of them. Mental note Merivale, when pouring copious amounts of tequila into your guests, a bit more food might be an idea. Barely any time had passed before the upper-case comment “HELLO I’M DRUNK” appeared in our notes for the class. So, you know, win.






Demonstration In addition to the full cocktails we were served, we were shown how to make a couple more and given tastes using the time-honoured and dainty straw-sampling technique, demonstrated here by your humble reviewers.

Step 1.

Steps 3 through 7. Repeat until glass is empty.

 By far our favourite was Hemmesphere's signature cocktail, the Bling Bling, and might we just say angels sang and played kazoo. This is not only a great tequila cocktail, this is one of the best cocktails. Ever. Muddled chunks of pineapple and basil leaves are mixed with tequila, apple liqueur, apple juice and lime juice. Balancing the sweet fruits with basil is a stroke of genius, and seriously, if we could have a glass a day of that apple goodness it may not keep the doctor away, but we’d gladly go to hospital for it. Bugger tasting tiny bits in a straw – we wanted ten in an intravenous drip.


Blind tasting. After learning about the different types of tequila and their ageing and distilling processes, we were invited to taste the five generous samples in front of us and take a guess at their particular variety.

Snorting is kind of frowned upon, though.

One of the tequilas was a $500-a-bottle ‘Seleccion Suprema’, which our mate Knighty described as ‘dessert’ – it was the colour of syrupy caramel and tasted like warmly spiced magnificent with a hot damn aftertaste. Jo scored two out of five, probably due to the fact that it’s hard to be discerning when you have two fists full of tequila. Lorin scored four out of five, only because she couldn’t remember what the fifth type was called. If we’d known in school that all you had to do to ace tests was to include alcohol, perhaps our educational results would’ve been a little different. Our self-professed tequila expert buddy Gibbo claimed five out of five, and won a free bottle of the lovely stuff. ‘Pig in mud’ is a term that comes to mind. We don’t know if the bottle even made it home.

It's not the photo that's blurry. You're just off your tits on tequila.

 Also, another tip (we like to educate and enlighten here at 52 Pickup): apparently to cleanse your palate, you should take a sip of water and then smell your own skin. Luckily, our skin smells like rose petals, sunshine and human flesh.

Also a little bit like shame.

Goodie bags. Yeah. We got goodie bags. That’s like topping off a foot massage from Jason Statham with a tongue-pash from the Spanish soccer team. But, y’know – less hairy or likely to cry.

It looks a lot bigger when Lorin holds it.

Despite not having our usual drinks, we’re beyond pleased with getting to experience the cocktails we did. Sorry, I’ve got a call coming through. Hello? Oh, hi Bling Bling. What’s that? You think we should start seeing each other on a regular basis? Well, it’s a bit sudden, but okay.

We’re giving Hemmesphere four boob-shaped glasses out of five.