The Travel Critic

Tucked away in London, where cobbled streets and whispered secrets meet, lies Manetta’s Bar. You know the type. One of those subterranean jewels you have to “accidentally discover,” as though stumbling across Narnia through the back of a wardrobe. No natural sunlight, of course. Carpet so thick you immediately reassess your own home’s threadbare offerings. The sort of lighting that’s more about shadow and suggestion than illumination—pure mystery, darling.

The décor? Richer than a Russian oligarch’s yacht. Dark wood, leather, and colours so sultry they’d make Farrow & Ball’s deepest hues blush. You’ll find yourself scrolling their site mid-cocktail, wondering if “Manetta Noir” is an official shade yet. And the drinks? Oh, they come with ingredient lists that read like excerpts from Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them—a splash of this, a tincture of that. By the end of it, you’re convinced you’re sipping a spell.

But Manetta’s isn’t just about cocktails. It’s an experience, an atmosphere. The sort of place where you might find yourself in the company of a dazzling stranger, only to realise later she’s a spy sent to seduce and betray you. A scene straight from John le Carré, all whispers and danger and the faint scent of intrigue. Magical doesn’t quite cut it.

You should go. Dress well, stay late, and imagine yourself the star of a novel. The drinks? Oh, they’re excellent, but that’s hardly the point, is it?