Joel Golby: “Drinks Appeal to Me When They Feel Cursed”

I really enjoyed pouring drinks into other drinks this summer – peach soju into the neck of a beer bottle, a double espresso into a McDonald’s milkshake, Jagermeister into Red Bull – because there’s something, well, disgusting about it. Wretched. Drinks appeal to me when they feel cursed, close to a potion or a slurry, and it helps if you can get a little bit of dinner in there, too. I do not feel necessarily good about myself when I drink these – you know, in my soul – but I do know that I am having a fun and delicious time. That counts.

Stoke Newington’s latest “Have you been there yet?” spot nails the American aesthetic so well – I particularly like the imported “LAVEN SUS MANOS” sign in the bathroom – and has got its Michelada perfectly dirty, inspired by head chef Julian Denis’s “It’s research, honestly” trip to LA and a tiny street vendor he found in the Piñata District. “The beauty of a Michelada is that there’s no one right way to make one,” he told me. “Every spot and every person has their own style and twist, and that’s the magic of it.”

Shoreditch’s latest “Have you been there yet?” spot is getting a lot of rightful fanfare for being, well, a bit medieval and having sausages that really snap when you bend them. But if you leave without having one of the so-filthy-it’s-almost-kinky-somehow? Martinis then you’ve messed up: chilli pepper pickle juice mixed in with the gin, and served with two cornichons and a naughty little wedge of English saucisson. And, obviously, absolutely freezing cold. Hard to go to the right emotional place after a couple of normal Martinis, so imagine the King-like sounds and grunts you’ll make after three of these.

I have not personally managed to leave Bloodsports yet in any sort of shape to have a good morning afterwards. Much like Rowans or Infernos, the site presumably is built on a plague pit or ancient haunted ground where glowing gems buried deep beneath the earth glow hot-green and compel me to do and say something ridiculous, and that’s my story and I’m sticking to it. Still: they feed us the poison so they can sell us the cure, which in this case is a briny, chilli-y, Clamato-y spicy bacon vodka situation. Drink in silence while wearing jet-black sunglasses.

This article originally appeared in issue 5 of Broadsheet London's print magazine. Find out where you can pick up a copy here.