The door to Revolver Bar is always closed. By design. The responsibility of entrance lies squarely with you because you have to actively engage with the commitment of your thirst. The door isn’t just another door.
It’s aged wood, heavy with intention. This door is the first act in the evening’s performance. And it never awakens before 8pm. Until then, linger at ATE Restaurant. Or sit in your car in the parking lot and risk looking like a serial killer.
When the clock chimes 8pm, approach the door, a ritual that demands theatre for you will be required to rap it with your knuckles. Two solid raps are sufficient. Three, if you’re feeling audacious.
A small aperture will slide open revealing a pair of eyes assessing your pedigree.
I don’t know how they know who to let in, but they let me in. Inside, my friend, Dr Sly, was perched waiting at the bar’s far end, elegant in black.
The counter hosted a couple and a young Indian gentleman in tight trousers and loafers. Revolver Bar is whisky's sacred temple. I ordered some bourbon and touched glasses with Dr Sly’s Whisky Sour.
The rest of the bar is all exposed brick, has wooden features, and has classic decor. When they played the Peaky Blinders theme song it felt inevitable.
You can't help feeling like a character at Revolver Bar. Someone on the run. Or who carries people’s important secrets. When you sit at the bar you wish you had a hat which you can sit on their classic wooden counter with a revolver engraved in it.
As the evening wore on there were more knocks on the door.
The couple departed and Mr Bollywood turned and asked what I did for a living. (Lazy conversation starter) A writer, I said. Oh, nice! And what about you? He turned to Dr Sly. “A writer’s friend.” She said.
I smirked because this seemed like the typical exchange you would overhear at Revolver Bar because at the Revolver Bar you don’t reveal your hand.
