Barspy

Seattle Hotel, Brighton

In need of something to wet his whistle, Barspy makes a trip to the south coast and finds something to float his boat at Seattle – though there’s no mermaids in sight...

Call me an old-fashioned, out of touch, old soak (actually don’t bother, I get enough of that from my dame), but I reckon watering holes of note should have a resident floozy. Indeed, any self-respecting speak should have several of the same, twixt optic and Boston, dispensing with the gargle, the flirty-girty and the breathy sympathy. It lends a certain je ne sais quoi to the ambience and gladdens the heart of broken-down shamuses like me.

That’s the first thing I notice about this joint. It is distinctly Judy-less. Since I have my ever-loving in tow, I don’t wish to labour the point, but merely apprise you of the fact that I disapprove of the mise en scène. There ain’t no popsy weaving her magic behind the mahogany and that’s a crying shame.Instead the gargle is presented by four young dudes with matching shirts and toothy grins; eager to please, but too hirsute and flat-chested to float my boat.

The Seattle Hotel lies a little outta Brighton, slap dab on the waterfront of the Marina and is much beloved of the yachties and the weekending execs seeking a crib away from the bustle of London-on-Sea itself. But what brings us here today is the liquor, which is overseen by one Tim Garrett, a man who is no stranger to the awards podium when it comes to all things mixological.

My Judy and I park ourselves in a corner and observe the scene. It’s a spacious joint and no mistake, with a prow-shaped balcony outside, overlooking the water and bijou little craft bobbing merrily about. There is no shortage of sit-upons, what with leather banquettes and smoked glass tables (complete with potted palms), chairs and the occasional stool and – if I dare say such a thing in Brighton – poufs.

It’s a comfortable dive, but somewhat lacking in atmospheric pizzazz with lighting too high and general hubbub too low. There’s a couple nibbling each other’s ear lobes a few tables away and beyond them a dozen or so citizens of Scandinavia getting numerous shots of medicinals, plus a cheery hen party of well-upholstered forty-somethings.

Turning to the list, my squeeze is seduced by a spot of molecular pizzazz dubbed Pearls and Champagne (Cointreau and gold leaf caviar served in a flute of Duval-Leroy champagne resting on fresh lemon juice and sugar).And as she pops the little pearls with her teeth and glugs the fizz, she pronounces it a steal for the sum of £10.

I can’t resist the Joe Crow Old-Fashioned: agave syrup, orange bitters, José Cuervo Tradicional, laced with white crème de cacao. And it’s a ripsnorter. Complex, zesty, sweet and dry. I demand another on the spot whilst the doll grabs a Palookaville, a Zubrowka vodka, apple schnapps, elderflower and apple juice mix created for Brighton’s own Fat Boy Slim. With a Cheshire Cat grin, she pronounces it ‘A for Alpha’.

The Judy and I take a breather in the Seattle’s diner and toy with some foie gras and a couple of the finest steaks this side of Texas before returning for some post-prandial potions. 

Undecided, we throw ourselves on the barkeep’s mercy. He gives us a look and knows exactly what’ll tickle our tonsils although we don’t know it ourselves. 
He presents the ever-loving with a Wolfschmidt Kummel served on enough ice to cool the Sahara and (guessing I ain’t had no dessert) slides me a thick ‘n’ gloopy Pedro Ximénez. Spot on!

The joint may not be jumping, but our taste-buds sure are.

Editorial feature from Imbibe Magazine - March / April 2009

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