There is a certain gravitas to the way Anup Devani does his thing. An arbiter of taste, a symbol of epicureanism, when he enters a place, people look, not least because of his hedonism, his decency, and his unpretentious use of a waistcoat.
The name of the place is Revolver, a boudoir with a 1920s gangland, bootlegger aesthetic. A place where men spend money for a living, and a tchotchke of mercy-thin knives line the wall, just in case you—never mind. The only sign outside is an insider’s glyph, as cryptic as a page from the Voynich manuscript. If you don’t know what it is, you don’t know what it is. Here, Anup is part wiseguy, part confessor: he pours you a drink, and you pour out your heart. People come here not to get drunk, but to sip the good stuff, to lay it bare on the tongue, layer by layer.
