The Flat Iron
It was a cold, drizzly Wednesday night. It wasn’t even 7pm. Yet here we were, standing in the doorway of the new branch of Flat Iron, being told the wait for a table would be an hour and 20 minutes. ‘One hour and 20?!’ we squeaked, aghast. Still, there was a silver lining: this Covent Garden outpost of the hip steak hangout – the third one to date – has a long, shiny bar serving long, shiny cocktails, so there we waited.
As ways to kill 80 minutes go, it’s not too shabby. Our cocktails, chosen from a short menu of with-a-twist-classics, were rustled up by a cheery bartender who stayed smiling when we nearly forgot to pay him. A blood orange old fashioned saw its bourbon base deliciously spiked with smoked demerara syrup and blood orange oil; of this kind of tinkering with drinks, we approve. Before we knew it, an iPhone was buzzing, the time was up and our table was ready.
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