Marble Bar

Level B1, Hilton Sydney Hotel, 488 George Street Sydney

(No idea what we’re doing? Look at that link, top right there, after the word ‘Alfie’. Theeeeere you go.)

Aaaaaaaah, crap.

We slept through our alarm.

For like.

Y’know.

Two years.

Look, we realise you’re a little angry right now, that you think we deserted you, that we moved on with someone younger and prettier, with perter buttocks*. Someone that doesn’t ask so many questions, like ‘why don’t you do any reviews of bars that aren’t in the deck of cards’, and ‘do snakes float if they hold their breath’. Or you think that we’ve been out there leading spectacular lives, and don’t think you’re special any more.

DIRTY LIES.

Truth be told, we kinda missed just catching up with each other without having to take notes about every f@#king little thing.

That, and we’re sort of crap.

Don’t get us wrong, we’ve still been drinking in that time, but we got so distracted we lost sight of what was important.

You, our readers.

Both of you.

From the bottom of our hearts we apologise. See?



Never been to acting school, but NAILED IT.


But good news: we’re back!



I know, it's like someone just suggested we have crunchy AND soft tacos.

To kick things off, we decided that we’d go to the first bar in the pack. Marble Bar, and bring our elegant compadre Lucia along. For a lot of people Marble Bar will dredge up memories of when you first left school and you thought that you would go to a cool, fancy bar because you totally could do that because you’re a grown-up now, and you don’t answer to nobody or nuthink. Where you could spend heaps on a drink, before you realised that you need to get a job to support that kind of behaviour. To other people it might be the place that you have definitely been to before, you just can’t remember when it was or with who. It’s ok, that happens (Hint: it was that guy with the thing on his lip).

Which you couldn't see, because this shit be DARK.

Located in the basement of the Hilton, Marble Bar is, well, a bar made of marble. See?

Jo loves anything that's cold with drinks in it like she is.

When we first walked in, Lorin wondered if Versace had thrown up in this place. Two days later, Jo sent an email saying ‘Hey, you know how you said Versace threw up? We could, like, say that he threw up after eating Rococo Pops. ROCOCO POPS, LORIN’ because she’s borderline mentally touched and should be studied. Lucia commented that the ambience was “lecherous, like sodomy you could only get in the 17th Century”. Seriously, this is why we drink – without booze we’re just eighty percent ridiculous analogies, forty percent carbs and eight percent mad sick maths skills.

Anyway, you have never been faced with this much marble. FACT.

DON’T BE FOOLED BY THE ROCKS THAT THEY GOT. Once we sat down and looked around, though, we were kind of impressed with how ridiculously ornate and detailed the décor is, and how many representations there are of boobies around the joint. The walls are adorned with oil paintings, the lighting is dark but not dingy and we got the overwhelming feeling we were in a monk den. Yeah, that’s right - a monk den. Not a monastery. We like our monks feisty and a little drunk.

This monk, he's gone to heaven.

Surveying the intricately carved bar (of which there are two, one flanking each side wall), we pondered the incredible work that the carpenter of such swirly magnificence had completed. “I bet he was relieved by the time he got to the tits, huh” said Jo. See, at knee height, there are carved figurehead-style ladies with no tops or bras on – Lorin even bruised her knee on a boob while she was crossing her legs.

It made her go all cross-eyed and blurry and nude.

Less enchanting, though, was Creepy Kid Nook.
It’s a kid. Who is creepy. In a nook. THIS BAR TOTALLY HAS EVERYTHING.

Like gin. And nightmares.

We’ve never seen both of the bars manned and serving at the same time, but in Lorin’s head they’re duelling bars, and that’s final. With only one operating, it creates a good space in the room. People can stand and chat at the bar and the opposing side of the room allows for people to sit at tables with their group, or in the middle of the room on lounges in front of the band area. It's roomy and cosy at the same time, like a jacuzzi at a ski lodge.

ROCK AND OR ROLL ISH. Speaking of the music, at first it’s fairly inoffensive, we-think-this-might-be-one-of-the-barstaff’s-ipods rock, while the band sets up. As the band sets up, we spy the singer and Lorin is ninety percent sure that he’s an ex-Australian Idol finalist. In a fedora, obviously. Her money is on funky soul covers for the rest of the night, but Jo reckons thrash metal and goes back to her maths. Check, please.

SUITS YOU, SIR The clientele is what you would expect for a CBD bar on a Thursday night. Suits and more suits, with a smattering of hotel guests mixed in, due to the whole in-a-hotel thang. And wait, we recognise the aftershave that the guy who spends the whole night with his elbows on the bar, facing into the room, staring at every female in the place is wearing… it’s… is it… it’s Paco Rabanne’s Douche, isn’t it? Some people know that a dark bar is the only place they’ll have half a chance of having a good night**.

LAYING SOME LONG DISTANCE CABLE: If you need to go to the toilet at Marble Bar, best to start walking about half an hour before you last went. Situated outside of the bar proper through a rabbit warren of halls and stairs, this could really work if there was some kind of a glamour pay-off at the other end. There isn't. You are automatically brought back to the real world and the fact you’re in a hotel. What makes this worse is that it could be any average hotel, not the Hilton. We suddenly feel anxious that we’ve blacked out and woken up at a conference without any highlighters, inane chit-chat or getting-to-know-you trust games. The bathrooms, readers, are meh.

Meh.

There are no extra touches to enhance the experience inside the bathrooms. Where are our nice hand towels and scented soaps? As Lorin noted, “If you can afford a creepy kid in a hole, you can afford f*cking hand towels”. We think Lucia said it best “Single ply? Nice try.” Worse still, we had to fix the soap dispenser and the cleaners had just been in there. Yeah, that’s right. We go places. We fix stuff. We’re like your neighbourhood handy-ninjas.
This is the forgotten corner of a 5 star hotel. It is the Kevin McCallister of amenities. Look it up.

ON THE ROCKS The menu at Marble Bar is extensive and appropriately sectioned, with pages titled ‘Classic Cocktails’ (including a Sazerac – first made in 1793 and strained into an absinthe-coated brandy balloon, if you please), ‘Premium Classics’ (where an old-fashioned is thirty bucks), ‘Twisted Classics’ (like a lychee and rose martini), ‘Tall’, ‘Sparkling’, Sour’, and a whole page each of Martinis and Whiskeys. There is also a whole page each for fifteen different pictures of paintings of bottoms.

We counted the bottoms. And now you love us more.

The wine list, although fairly small, is really quite great. Everything is local except for the champagne - exactly how it should be for a flagship hotel. Bottles range from the affordable up to the ridiculous so they have tried to cater for everyone, including Douche-Face McSuiterson at the bar there.

Bar snacks, from the nutty to the substantial, are available and pricy – from a ten dollar bowl of nuts to $28 for lamb cutlets. We didn’t eat while we were there, but we did smell other people’s food, which made its way down from the hotel, and it smelled incredible. We know, we know. We shouldn’t smell other people’s food, but once you’ve bruised your knee on a carved tit it’s in for a penny, in for a pound.



DRINKY DRINKY: LORIN Vodka & Dry. While the alcohol on offer in this place is obviously good, I still would like to be asked which brand I would prefer. I know that sounds fussy, but alcohol is the one area of my life where I actually am. Wow, I just re-read that and it’s really quite sad. John our barman didn’t ask. He poured and he poured me a Stolichnaya... for those of you playing at home, this is my least favourite of the vodkas. Jo on the other hand was automatically given Tanqueray. Half a win for John. My dry ginger ale was flat, I also didn’t get a garnish. It’s really quite simple, just add fresh lime to everything and you’re bound to win. Not so happy with my standard.

Yeah, arranging yourself symmetrically doesn't make it right, y'know.

Drink two- It’s at this point I usually like to ask the bar tender to suggest a cocktail for me. It gives them a chance to flex their tending muscles and impress, and also saves me trawling through the 50 page menu. I’m lazy, you should already know that about me. John asked if I like sweet or sour- check, I said sour, he suggested a margarita. Dude, you have an extensive list of some impressive drinks and you go to a margie? Too standard, John, come on. He then suggested the Zaitochi. My ears pricked up a little here. Smirnoff, ginger liquor, cucumber, lemon and wasabi. DING DING DING DING. Oh John, just when I had written you off you go and TOTALLY REDEEM YOURSELF. Holy mother of god, it is good. It is a perfect balance of flavours, just sour enough with the wasabi adding only a subtle but awesome kick. I win life.

Before...

SUPPER HAPPY WASABI TIME PRECINCT

DRINKY DRINKY: JO For my standard, a gin and tonic, I was in the loo at ordering time, so Lorin had time to order my drink, pay, take notes, get a mani/pedi and re-type the bible. Those bitches are FAR AWAY. When I got back I found an extremely average, yet plentiful, gin and tonic, with a pretty good gin/tonic/ice ratio and a tiny slice of lime shaved from the side of a midget lime’s pet lime. I can’t really explain why, but I hated the glass. This is a bar that seemingly sources its décor directly from God’s most intricately carved and favourite testicle, and its standard drink glassware from a two dollar shop on a train line.

They had a two-for-one special on glasses and laminex tables.

For my cocktail, I steered away from my normal martini fetish, as my tastes, unlike my ability to draw a cock n’ balls in every inflight magazine I see, have reached a little maturity over the last couple of years. I chose an Old Fashioned (rye whisky, bitters, sugar, soda, and a great wodge of fragrant orange rind), and due to the massive variety available at Marble Bar, asked barkeep John to delight me. He totally came through.

The only thing old fashioned about this is my PANTS or something.

In a gorgeous, satisfyingly palm-weighting glass, he presented a beautiful, sexy, hair-on-chest drink that would smoke a cigar and objectify boobs if it could. I was excited to drink it. I was chucked under the chin by its strength. I was upset when it was gone.

Excited.



Chin-chucked.



Upset/constipated.

DRINKY DRINKY: LUCIA Not bound by the conventions/neck-albatrosses of bar reviewing, Lucia went sweet and chose a Wizard Of Oz to start (sparkling wine with raspberry & vanilla) and an Island Sweet for her main meal (vodka, gin, tequila, white rum, Cointreau, lemon & lime juice topped with Vanilla Coke). She really, really should have been drunker, but it just made her more adorable. Granted, she started off the night with a comment about historical sodomy, so the only way was up, sure.


Mmmmm. Sodomy.



I'm amdorables, wheeeeeee

The Marble bar kind of confuses us. Visually it wants to be pretentious but then it tries to be middle ground and accessible to everyone. It’s a bit like Paris Hilton – it looks fancy, but doesn’t follow through with enough substance and usually has too many blokes inside it. It was good, but given the choices available in Sydney, there’s probably not any reason for us to go back. Except maybe for the thrash metal, obviously.

We’re giving it 2 and a quarter carved wooden tits out of five.

*Impossible.

**Root.

Pocket Bar

13 Burton St, Darlinghurst

OH MY GOD, WE MISSED YOU SO MUCH.
Let’s be honest, we’re slack tarts and we haven’t been keeping abreast of our drinking agenda. Frankly, we’ve been a bit slack keeping a-drink of our breasting agenda, too, but that’s not really information for here. What with trips to the Middle East, insane work and social schedules and basking in the novelty of drinking without critiquing every element, we lost sight of game. Eyes on the prize girls, rookie mistake! So we’re back and we’re happy to be here. Thanks for having us. If you need to be reminded of the aforementioned agenda, check it here. If you need to be reminded of the reason the internet is a scary and amazing place, an example is waiting for you here. Apologies in advance.



SWINGIN’ LIKE A GATE First stop back on the 52 Pickup train was Pocket Bar in Darlinghurst, with our friends and imbibing compadres Babs, Butters, Court and Mark, and what a stop it was. One of us had been there a number of times before (hint: martinis were consumed and swear-words were used), but for the other it was a spankin’ new experience. Pocket is a wee little place (that has its own little wee place, but more of that later) recognizable by its charmingly weathered, swirly metal gate at one end. We’re just going to put it out there: we love a gate. They’re like doors with holes in them.
The decor is what we’d describe as “grunge chic” – graffiti-esque Pop art splashed all over the walls, dark lounges your grandma could crochet comfortably in, a changing gallery of photographs, exposed industrial vents and a bit of nerdy science paraphernalia thrown in for good measure.

They also have lightbulbs.

 We were instantly comfortable, huddled luxuriously on our lounges around our table at the rear end of the bar, surrounded by clusters of other mismatched, ornate furniture which thin out at the front of the room to make way for higher, stooled ledges and a clutch of seats at the bar. Lorin looked particularly relaxed (and uncharacteristically imposing) on her throne, whereas I was afforded a boys-eye view of a big pair of black and white boobs.

Like a queen with a boob-halo, is Lorin.

In fact, a good way to direct someone to this place would be to say “walk down Crown St from Oxford until you see a bunch of relaxed people drinking – if there’s boobs on the wall, you’re in the right place”. This might only be a problem if the person kept walking until William St, where I imagine wall-boobs are a little more commonplace.


YOUR SERVE, BATMAN. The mix of highbrow furniture and lowbrow decoration was pleasingly echoed in the service we received – casual, but attentive and top-notch. Pocket offers the lovely surprise of table service. An awesome trend that we are discovering on our little alcoholic odyssey is that cool and casual does not mean that service will be compromised. Our waitress, christened Faye but referred to on our bar bill as Batman, (hello, awesome) may be our new best friend. Sitting down, offering water, chatting with us and actually listening to what we wanted to drink, this woman was good people. The fact that the onesie playsuit she was wearing turned out in conversation to be just one of a large internationally-amassed collection didn’t hurt, neither – EVERYBODY LOVES A ONESIE. They’re like two pieces of clothing, but not. Genius.

Batman's service is so fast she's a blur. Nothing to do with photography skills. Cough.

Even when Batman twigged that we were writing a bar review (subtlety not being our strong point ever), she was entirely cool about it, and suggested drinks we should try to get a good idea of the bar’s strengths. She also asked us to ignore the spelling errors in the menu (which is being re-printed, apparently), which is a bit like asking Justin Bieber to not be a flicky-haired prat, but no harm done. Another staff member came over and offered us a take-home version of the otherwise leather-clad menu. Take-home representations of booze and boobs? Win. Score. Bonus. The drink menu was varied and top-notch, containing classics, slightly twisted classics, and some intriguing originals. There are a number of martini varieties like watermelon, rose petal and espresso, and more intriguing concoctions like the raspberry mojito or the Aperol sour. House spirits are a cut above the average, too – a fact proudly announced and rapidly consumed. With the quality of alcohol behind the bar, we think you’d have to be a blind amputee not to hit gold with that collection. And keep your guide dog away from the straw.
Food is also available at Pocket, and they’re best known for their crepes (amongst other smaller snacky things and good-value cheese platters), but we were there to drink. File that fact under ‘Surprises Tantamount To Finding Out Ricky Martin Is Gay’.

"What will it be, ladies?" Ricky Martin: "No thanks". 

PEOPLE AND PEE-HOLES Clientele was a relaxing mix of mild hipsters, a handful of unexpected suits, after-work locals and one midget. There was a refreshing absence of bullshit or pompous pretence, as everyone just seemed to be concentrating on putting lovely things into their mouths and pushing pleasant conversation out of them. The bar filled up quickly, as is the way with Sydney’s recent flourish of smaller, more intimate venues, but happily there were enough toilets to cater for everyone. We’ll happily queue for tickets to see James Franco’s bottom, but not to hover our own over the porcelain facilities. The loos are unisex, and clustered around a curtained-off area, each cubicle being equipped with its own mirror and hand-basin, which we spastically love. The ability to complete one’s regular ablutions from start to finish in total privacy is a classy touch, lessened only marginally by the fact that one might have entered a cubicle in which the previous occupant has left the seat up. Unisex: 0. Checking you don’t have a bat in the cave without anyone seeing: 1.
Happily for you, I only took a shot of the ceiling in the toilets. You’re welcome.

Think yourself lucky I didn't turn the camera around.

BEAT ME DADDY, EIGHT TO THE BAR The music in Pocket was an eclectic mix, starting on the dubby side of life and moving swiftly and rapaciously through decades, skimming Hank Williams, Etta James, the Beach Boys, Kanye and Winehouse on its way past. We were impressed, because it was the clear aim of the music to not seem like it was trying to impress anyone. We were equally impressed with the fact that table numbers in this place are just playing cards on little stands. Cute much, unnecessary but deliciously quirky tiny detail?!

DRINKY DRINKY: LORIN When Batman asked what I would like and I said Vodka Dry, her immediate response was “with fresh lime, yeah?”. Tick. Although I didn’t get asked what kind of Vodka I would like, this bar does not stock crap produce so why ask? It was a good mix and the dry was ridiculously fresh... as fresh as soft drink can be I guess. I totally just rapped.

Yes you did, L-Dawg. Yes you did.

While the menu is awesome, I didn’t really know what I wanted for my second drink. I asked Batman if she had any suggestions and was met with the following questions: What types of alcohol do you like? Do you like it sweet or sour? Long or short?
She then thought for a while and came up with the El Diablo, a nice little mix of tequila, ginger beer, creme de cassis and half a lime. While quite strong on the tequila, it made me fuzzy and happy. It wasn’t on the menu, but the woman identified my needs and met them. I think that’s grounds for marriage.

I now pronounce you drink and wife.

DRINKY DRINKY: JO My standard gin and tonic was excellent – a good size, saliva-inducingly fresh, and with a generous slab of lime, squeezed like python’s prey.

Python, Jo. Not Cougar.

 My first cocktail was a Mr Pink, ordered because of its gin base, interesting mix of ingredients, and my enduring affection for Steve Buscemi. With a double shot of Tanqueray, pink grapefruit juice, rosemary syrup, OJ bitter, lime and sparkling water, it was very tall, very tart and very generous. At first it was a little fruit-punch cordial for my taste, but then it slapped me on the epiglottis and left a sharp ginny afterglow.


I followed up with my most prominent fixation, a dirty gin martini. This. Place. Rocks. A Martini. Deep, cold, hazy, and with the best-tasting fat piggy olives in a long time. Slurp.

Before.

After.

Two of our companions were drinking wine, but Babs, in between taking some gorgeous photos for us (the ones we took ourselves are easy to pick – they’re the crap ones), ordered himself a 5 O’Clock Shadow, made of Hendricks gin, rose water, lemon juice and sugar syrup. Despite Court’s announcement that it “looked like a penis floating in cum” (please note that we’d already discussed ocular syphilis at this stage), it easily took the title of cocktail of the night. It was a game of two halves, full credit to the bar staff, but this was the winner on the day.

Thanks for making the penis comparison just a little more awkward, Babs.

While the coolness factor of the place can at times feel a bit forced, staff members named Batman and Catwoman put you at ease and make sure you’re looked after. Drinking here is like listening to an excellent symphony orchestra that has just one bassoon out of tune, but it’s a little gem of a pocket in the wall to which we will happily return.

We’re giving it three-and-three-quarter little playing cards on stands out of five.

Blu Bar

36th Floor, Shangri-La Hotel, 176 Cumberland Street, The Rocks

If you’ve stumbled here by accident, you might want to click here first, to see what we’re doing. If you’ve stumbled here on purpose, you can wait for those other guys here. They won’t be long.


For this review, we enlisted the help of some experienced and enthusiastic drinking buddies – Babs, Threaders, Butters, Billo and Pepper. It’s often good to have a fresh perspective, even if it does mean fewer delicious peanuts per person. Most of us had been here before years ago, and remembered a high-class, whispered awe, sterling-silver-service experience. Unfortunately, like hairstyles, hundred-dollar bills and public tolerance for New Kids On The Block, some things change over time.

 UP UP AND WA-HEY We’re not going to lie, this is a pretty classy venue. There’s something about entering a five star hotel, traveling 36 floors and arriving on top of a beautiful city - it kind of smacks you around the head and tells you to pay attention, albeit with a cashmere glove and a thank you note afterwards. This bar has one of the most ridiculous views of Sydney Harbour available. Fact. Located at the triple-nosebleed level of the Shangri-La hotel, Blu Bar is pretty much walls of glass with a bar inside.

Oh, so you wanted clear, non-blurry photos? Yeah, that's a shame.

Split into two sections, the first being the bar area which has long tables and a western view of the city, it also has a blue bar. I know, right? The second is the lounge area, with a view extending from Glebe to Cremorne Point and beyond, yet no bar. There is a tiny wee bar cart, though, and we’re currently accepting double-spaced typed submissions explaining why, when drinks are just waitered in from the other room.

Please explain. Also: Scotch, thanks.

Regardless, with ceiling high glass walls, this view is pretty gob-smacking. The pity is that only four tables really get to enjoy it - everyone else has to sit in the cheap seats and yet pay the same prices. That’s like going to a swingers party and then just shaking hands all night. Cough. Apparently.

This picture is here so you forget we mentioned swingers parties.

We were told earlier in the week that Blu Bar doesn’t take table bookings, so we gave our names to the affable lass at the door to be put on the waiting list for the lounge and found a table in the bar area. It was busy for a Thursday, and it was three quarters of an hour until we were able to move through to the more visually-spectacular lounge, but we completely understood that it’s harder to seat seven people than just two or three.


BAR BLING Luckily there was a massive menu to keep us occupied while we were waiting. Great mounds of Parton, this thing is long. And varied. And let’s be honest, even though it’s what you might expect from a fancy joint like this, a bit of a wank (except for the brilliant famous quotes written on each page, none of which we can remember – a little help, anyone?). The cocktail descriptions left a little to be desired- we understand that you want to sound amazing and offer top shelf products, but please note, not everyone that enters your bar is an alcoholic and will know the names of obscure and exotic elixirs off the top of their heads. Most of the drinks listed tacitly invite patrons to point at an ingredient and say to a staff member “Excuse me, but what the frig is this when it’s at home?”.
Hopefully, though, considering the staff aesthetics here, the response would be “The answer is in my pants”. Approaching the bar, we were greeted by an extremely attractive dread-locked bar tender who seemed to have been picked off a deserted island for our cocktail pleasures. Seriously, it was a little distracting. Even Threaders admitted that he’d be willing to get a bit curious with him, which is saying something. Adonis-like looks aside, it seems that all staff in this venue are more than happy to help you and chat with you about your day and discuss which kind of drink might be the perfect cleanser. To be completely honest, we were a little surprised at the casual nature of the service. Don’t get us wrong, we like feeling like we’re welcomed in such a nice establishment – an establishment that serves a $10,000 ‘Martini On The Rock’, that comes with a real diamond and a hotel room, for serious – it’s just that the dreadlocks and how-ya-goin’ service was a little incongruous. So too for the ‘Toasties’ listed in the food section of the menu. Call us crazy, but when you’re spending over $20 for a “toastie” it’s not so casual. I’ll have a toastie and an 8-carat diamond, thanks. Y’know – since you’re fresh out of Chiko Rolls and sapphires.


BOOM-CHIKA-WOW-I-GUESS The venue is described as a New York- inspired bar exuding urban sophistication, but other than the blue light box in the bar, the decor to us seemed a little bland and, well, hotel-like. Possibly even airport-transit-lounge-esque, except at this height you’re a bit closer to the aeroplanes. The music, too, wasn’t what you’d expect – bassy dub followed by The Jackson Five. It’s eclecticism gone crazy, we tells ya! Other guests were generally your well-groomed suited set, or non-Contiki tourists on the marginally posher side of life. They didn’t really catch our attention until Butters said “What about the clientele? That chick just passed out!”, pointing to the table next to us. And indeed she had. One too many glasses of bubbles, perhaps, maybe vertigo. For the most part, though, Threaders described our co-drinkers as ‘the kind of people you’d see waiting to go into a David Lynch movie”. Threaders had just finished a massive White Russian at this point, though.

 THEM’S SOME LONG PIPES, MAMA The bathrooms are standard issue ritzy hotel. Red/brown marble, gold finishings, pot plants, thick hand towels. Nice. But yawn. Where’s our free perfume samples, bitches? Come on.

DRINKY DRINKY: LORIN Drink one: Well, I wasn’t asked what kind of Vodka I wanted in my drink. I don’t want to sound like a spoilt brat, but I take this shit seriously and if you’ve got four different vodkas lined up, I’d like to be asked which one I want. I may be short, but I have taste buds too... OK, maybe I’m taking this a little more personally than I should. Anyway, it was a good ratio of Vodka to dry, but it was a bit flat. The dry, not my enthusiasm. The garnish was lime, so tick there. For $11.50 for a spirit, it’s a bit expensive, but I had come prepared for such events.

This drink is actually four storeys tall. It just looks smaller because it's at the Shangri La.

Drink two: After perusing the menu I ordered myself a Cucumber Cooler consisting of Hendricks gin, apple liqueur, elderflower cordial, cucumber, granny smith apples, mint, a hint of lemon juice and a dash of soda. This description got me a little happy. Anyone who knows me well knows that I love a cucumber, it is my favourite of the fruits that you don’t automatically think of as a fruit. However, the happiness didn’t last as long as I was hoping, in the words of my esteemed colleague Threaders, “it tastes like a cucumber flavoured sports drink”. The menu description made me dream of amazing flavours, but instead I was rather bored.

Lorin generally shows boredom by smiling.

DRINKY DRINKY: JO My gin & tonic was served in a tall, voluminous glass with the perfect amount of ice and a lime garnish, so it certainly looked like value for money. I could barely taste the gin, though, and the whole thing left me more than a little on the meh side of life. Once again, Blu Bar excelled in giving the impression that you were about to experience something spectacular, and then under-delivering - a lot like Christina Aguilera’s career.

Anyone not drooling right now is fired.

When faced with the daunting task of choosing from the eight-thousand page cocktail menu, I took the easy way out and ordered my new stand-in boyfriend, a dirty gin martini. The bargirl chilled the glass well and asked for my gin preference (Tanqueray), so the resulting drink was cold and huge, with three robust olives and wonderful balance. It had the perfect amount of ‘dirty’, which is what I hope people say about me behind my back. The only problem with large martinis (and the very idea that there could be any problem at all with them is astounding) is that they don’t stay cold. Cold is the fourth most important ingredient of a martini.

Alright, stop. Collaborate and listen.

 Lastly, my favourite rant – if you’re going to serve me unpitted olives (which you totally and utterly should), give me somewhere to put the pits. They’ve been in my mouth. Don’t get me wrong – my mouth is awesome – but unless you want my (awesome) saliva on your furniture, I’m gonna need more than a coaster. Fucking good peanuts, though.

I'm not drunk, but I can totally see it from here.

DRINKY DRINKY: THEM We asked our truly amazingly stunningly attractive companions what they were drinking, and also to sum up their Blu Bar experience in a few words.
 Threaders was impressed that he was asked how much milk he wanted in his White Russian, and also with the final result. His bar summary: “Nice but not awesome – I do feel a little bum-raped”. We assume and hope that this was in reference to the prices.

More bear than man. In a good way.

Babs started with a Tiki Tac Toe (Rum, pineapple, vanilla, peach) and liked it, although when we tried it (reviewer's privilege, see) we felt it tasted like a welcome-to-Fiji fruit cocktail. He was singularly obsessed with the idea of being able to see the city from the toilet, though, so his disappointed summary? “No poo with a view”.

Play your cards right, and Babs' jeans could be weirdly blending in with your couch at home, ladies.

Butters had a… a drink. In a glass. With a garnish. Crap, Butters, what did you have?! Either way, she summarised “I can’t get past the girl who fell over”.

And we can't get past your awesome boots.

Billo tried a few cocktails, the first of which was an Aztec Conquest, with DON JULIO!! Tequila (we made a pact with friends recently that the words ‘DON JULIO!! must always be shouted with a Spanish accent), pomegranate liqueur, Tuaca (vanilla citrus liqueur), apple juice, lemon juice, agave syrup and rosemary. Phew. He was pleased that the rosemary sprig made him feel like he was doing his bit for the Diggers, but his assessment: “If it wasn’t for the company and the view, it’d be just another bar”.

Not pictured: the Anzac Day Parade.

Pepper, who only just claimed that nickname on the night, started with A Pear Of Sidecars, made with Grey Goose vodka, Remy Martin cognac, pear liqueur, lemon and sugar. She thought the lemon in the drink was a little overpowering, and that the bar gave a good first impression. Then she said something that she claimed might have been a little harsh, but I’m sure there are some very fine leagues club cocktail bars out there.

If you can find someone classier than this, we will give you five thousand dollars.

There is a massive elephant in the room, and fuck it, lets tackle it around the ankles. This bar is great, but you take away the view and there is not much left to admire. They do things well, but so do a lot of other bars in Sydney. For the amount of money that you spend, unless you get a table with the money shot, we think it’s probably better spent somewhere else. It was voted AHA bar of 2010 and that’s exactly what it is, a hotel bar.



We’re giving Blu Bar three big glass walls out of five. Only just.