In which our correspondents, Larry and Larman, sail into Fitzrovia and find themselves considerably further from shore than anticipated…
There are certain words that ought to set alarm bells ringing for men of discernment. ‘Themed’ being one of them. And ‘bottomless’. And, in Larman’s case, novelty glassware. So, when I suggested we investigate Rhum Tavern, tucked away on Margaret Street a sou’wester’s throw from Oxford Circus, his expression performed the particular arrangement of features he reserves for invitations he suspects he will regret.
“A rum tavern?” he replied, somewhat perplexed. “How…evocative. Lead on, then, old boy.”
From the outside, one would never suspect anything of it. The frontage looks slightly out of place and vaguely apologetic, straining against neighbours that suggest dry-cleaning rather than derring-do. But cross the threshold, as Mr. Ben might have done in the seminal children’s TV show, and you find yourself transported entirely. Floor-to-ceiling planked wood walls. Beams, barrels, and the warm, close atmosphere of a vessel’s belly. The space is styled as the hull of a seventeenth-century pirate ship — specifically, The Inferno — and they have committed to it with an admirably unironic totality.
“I suppose,” said Larman, surveying the scene with the expression of a man recalibrating his expectations, “that one ought to have anticipated a certain nautical flavour. The name rather broadcast it.”
Indeed. But the execution surpasses the premise. You could be in smuggler-era Cornwall or, dare one say it, Tortuga. The menus arrive like torn parchment — torn they are, in fact — treasure maps of the sort one used to fashion as a child, and the font is precisely the variety that belongs on a chest of doubloons. All that is missing, we agreed, are burning fuses braided into the waiting staff’s beards.
The cocktail list follows suit with cheerful dedication. The Sparrow, Pieces of Eight, The Inferno; these are derivatives of classics, renamed with piratical conviction and accompanied by lore that is, at minimum, entertaining, and at best, genuinely illuminating. Consider the Red Jenny: named, one is informed, after the most prolific corsair in recorded history, a commander of some four hundred junk ships and forty thousand pirates. The drink itself — tequila, sake, yuzu, lemon and red cabbage, with raspberry dust — is as audacious as its namesake. Whether it is audacious in the right direction is another matter.
Larman had previously warned me on no account to order anything served in a skull. We had barely settled at our table-cum-barrel when a waiter delivered two such vessels to a neighbouring party, a lurid pink slush peering picturesquely over the craniums. Larman observed this with the detached horror of a man watching someone order house wine at a three-star restaurant. “I may aspire to Indiana Jones,” he declared, “but I am not drinking from a head.”
For our own selections, we navigated toward the more classical end of the map. The Chester Copperpot — a sour, Larman’s poison of choice — arrived without incident or unnecessary theatre. My own experiment was the daiquiri, made with Bacardi Cuatro, lime juice, vinegar, and, of all things, spinach olive oil. “Banging decision,” our waiter confirmed, with the confidence of a man who has delivered this assessment many times and means it. It was, I’ll concede, inventive.
More conventional seafarers will find comfort in The Old Man and the Sea, a creditable spin on the Hemingway made with Thai Phraya rum. And Larman, who is susceptible to props despite himself, was sufficiently enticed by Pieces of Eight to investigate — a drink that arrives with a chocolate coin which, when bitten, reportedly enhances the cocktail’s finish. “It does,” he conceded, raising an eyebrow.
For the more adventurous — or the less sober — there is The Parlay: a large, chilled beer accompanied by two shots of rum. A depth charge by any other name. There are sharers, too, for those in a collective spirit of recklessness. The duplicitous Fool’s Gold; a peach-infused Myers reserve dark rum, Carpano Bianco, topped up with Prosecco. Billed as serving four, or solo, as delightful as it sounded, rather conjured images of coma-inducing college parties.
Rum, it should be noted, is taken seriously here. The bar carries over four hundred expressions — light agricoles, rich aged blends, the full cartographic range — and the mixology, for all the swashbuckling decoration, is grounded in genuine craft and premium components.
The food is a rather different proposition. The menu leans toward sharing and snacking, with an unfussy quality that, charitably, suits the surroundings. Salt beef and corn ribs would not have looked out of place on a trencher below decks of a Man-o’-War. We opted for the charcuterie and cheese, which was plentiful in the way that a thing assembled from assorted packets from the Sainsbury’s around the corner tends to be.
Having exhausted our supply of har-hars, we concluded proceedings in the natural manner: a rum Old Fashioned, companionable and unadorned, served without theatre or narrative context. Happy, as Larman put it, to be back in familiar waters. “For all the gimmickry,” he remarked as he raised his glass, “there is something here. The drinks, underneath the costumery, are rather good.”
Which is, I think, the thing. Rhum Tavern knows exactly what it is, commits to it without apology, and beneath the planks and parchment delivers cocktails that would reward attention in any room. The theatre is optional. The rum is not.
Rhum Tavern, 48 Margaret Street, Fitzrovia, London W1W 8SE. Reservations via opentable; walk-ins welcome. For more information, set your course for rhumtavern.com.
