We went to The Marylebone to celebrate AA's birthday, and it turned out to be a completely inspired decision. I spent the entire evening with a cocktail in hand, some of which seemed to appear almost magically, provenance unknown. Here's a guest post very fittingly penned by GW, who ended up getting a really alcoholic strawberries & cream concoction named after her when we got their expert mixologists to make us something off-menu:
Much of the discussion preceding our night at The Marylebone boiled down to an unnerving uncertainty about how exactly one pronounced the name of this affluent London neighbourhood. Mary-lebone? Marl-e-bon? Marry-le-bon? It doesn't matter, we still don't know.
Realising 2-for-1 cocktails would only be available for another couple of hours, we abandoned any notion of being fashionably late and hotfooted it across London as fast as the Bakerloo line would take us. Walking via Baker Street, we were somewhat disappointed not to encounter Benedict Cumberbatch on an evening stroll, but were soon placated by the cocktail selection that greeted us at our destination. Simply put, The Marylebone has something for everyone.
If you like to get drunk and high on sugar, there is an excellent selection of cocktails that will help you do just that - you can play it relatively safe with the popular apple mojito, or you can experience Nutella in a way you've never thought to before. If you are cheap, said cocktails are buy one get one free. If you enjoy a good ego massage, you may even get a frothy pink cocktail named after you.
The drinks at The Marylebone made me question everything about my existence as a habitué of more, shall we say, economical drinking establishments (Read: Wetherspoons). Having experienced some of their delightful infusions served in jam jars - Is this a thing now? Why is this a thing? - I do not know if I will ever be able to go back to my former persuasions. Now that I've encountered cocktails mixed up in front of me by who I can only assume were alchemists, I am not optimistic about my usual Mojito-from-a-bottle. First World Problems, I suppose.
Inevitably, perhaps, as the end of happy hour loomed closer, strategic planning ensued, and enough cocktails to see us through a nuclear winter were stockpiled for the night ahead. Despite this effort, supplies dwindled, prompting certain people to mistake themselves for Warren Buffett and gregariously purchase drink (Now at full price - gasp!) for anyone in sight.
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