It’s always hard to take a food and drink sort claiming to be working on a “secret” at their word. Who can keep a secret in hospitality? The restaurant business runs on tittle-tattle — forget gas and electricity, if the price of gossip shot up, there’d be a nation of chefs signing on. You understand my scepticism, then, when Ewan Venters, the OBE’d CEO of Hauser & Wirth (the Audley, Groucho), walked around his Mayfair wine bar explaining it was a “secret”. Especially given he was on the record for a newspaper article. Mine.
Although, fair’s fair. This “secret” isn’t of the same mould as those speakeasies that did the rounds a decade ago; there’s no rotary phone to navigate, or wearisome doorman pretending this is Chicago. Rather, Venters has just taken the basement of his Mayfair cornershop — do not come expecting deals on scratch cards, or cut-price Smirnoff — had it painted a warm white, filled full of art and bentwood chairs, and not told anyone. Except me, of course. And The Times. He probably did a podcast.
He definitely let his neighbours in on it. You might be tough as old boots, but I thought getting started on the wine at about noon on a Saturday was pretty good going. Turns out I was late to the party. The Mayfair types here on a weekend — a Barbour-and-cashmere scarf set that think six quid is about right for a loaf of bread — are evidently a hardy bunch, given all the half-sunk glasses that filled the room.
What the wine bar offers is straightforward enough — you’ve already guessed there’s wine, I take it (mostly old world, with a happy avoidance of anything with too much funk), and there’s the usual olives and nuts, the boards of charcuterie. The butcher upstairs provides rotisserie chicken, and the shop does all sorts of cheese. There are pre-mixed cocktails available — the Negroni is especially stylish — and someone found me a large Scotch or two easily enough (a mistake, always a mistake, especially after sherry).
But actually, what it really offers is an escape from Mayfair; it is utterly unlike anything the neighbourhood is known for. In place of flash is understated style: gleaming chrome factory fans on the ceiling; Duralex tumblers on the tables; a feeling more of France than, say, Dubai (the blight of Berkeley Square). Candles soften the light; it is somewhere for a date, or furtive catch-ups, or perhaps just a long afternoon with one too many bottles. It is relaxed where its neighbours are stiffly buttoned-up.
Prices, too, surprise: there’s a tempranillo at £4.50, a grillo at £5.50. A bowl of minestrone soup is £6.50. Granted, there are bottles at six grand a pop, and a £28 ploughman’s lunch — but I like to think these are there to stop locals wondering if the neighbourhood is on the slide. Still, this is a bar practising egalitarianism in an area known for elitism. High style, low spend? It’s a dream. Someone had to spill the secret. Well, er, again.
