Newscafe, Adlife is a decent place and they have nice salads and memorable burgers.
If you sit at the terrace in the evening when it’s not too cold, you will have a view of Ring Road traffic and the razzmatazz that comes with that.
It’s not a place I would go for a drink on a normal day because, well, the age group is on the younger side and their trousers and hairstyles make me insecure.
The few times I have gone there it’s because someone requested to meet there, as it happened not too long ago when I was meeting a gentleman from Moet Hennessy.
The drink — Glenmorangie — wasn’t on the menu, but the waiter said it was in the bar, so he went off to fetch it.
When he came back, the gentleman looked at the drink on the tray and said, “that’s not my drink, I can tell from the colour.”
Then he took it off the tray and run it under his nose.
“Nope,” he said, “that’s not my drink.”
The waiter insisted that it was, the barman poured it himself, he saw.
So they left to go to the bar to confirm. Ten minutes later, he was back.
“Yup, the bottle is ours but the drink wasn’t. He said. And what does that mean?
“It means someone put a different whisky in our bottle. Happens a lot in certain bars around the city.”
I was shocked. It made sense, though. There was a time I had gone to this bar and had a bourbon, a common one, and I remember feeling like death the next morning yet I had only consumed a double.
That’s the thing; you can’t be sure what you are drinking anymore, unless you absolutely know how it tastes like.