| Wednesday, February 28, 2001 |
 | Out with Matt last night, whom I find fascinating (as well as liking, obviously); he's very very bright indeed, but our minds only intersect at certain points. In this case, certain points along the bars of Hoxton.
Liquid, Hoxton's first organic bar but probably not its last, I always enjoy because the dawnstairs room in the early evening gives one the impression of drinking expensive lager in somebody's living room - nicely decorated, spacious, but a living room nonetheless. Sadly, the music was too loud for Matt, so we had a pint and departed.
The Foundry is the sort of bar which I desperately wanted to exist when I was about 16. The decor is messy, the walls are covered with art, there is an annexe made up to resemble a 1930s drawing room and everything is in an advanced state of dilapidation. Security cameras spin around meaninglessly, and a gigantic representation of a prostitute card is pinned to the ceiling. Very much as my living room would have been in a perfect 1992.
Alas, once more, a combination of music again too loud for Matt's evil genius-type ears (good DJing, though - Duran Duran and L7 in a single mighty crossfade, if memory serves) and a swelling hatred for the Hoxton Fin dogwankers in the corner table cast us on, on, on.
Bluu is a joke - a Hoxton bar for the Portobello set. Built in the old Blue Note's venue, it's like a Hoxton bar, but cleaner. The staff are reasonably attentive and competent, the beers denoted by little plaques on the bartop, the brickwork exposed only at a respectable height. It's like McHox. Still, at least you can hear yourself talk...you could probably even hear somebody sleep with your wife. Couldn't you, Matt?
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