If the velvet-lined stairwell to the basement doesn’t make you turn on your heels, maybe the royal blue throne at the top of one chamber, the generic chillout tunes or what seemed to be the stench of damp will do the trick. But the biggest let-down at 'champagne bar' 37 Jewry was its lack of champagne. The bar’s mission statement is supposedly to take the pomp out of fizzy plonk, yet there wasn’t a champers list in sight. That’s one way to do it, I guess. We tried to ask where to find the fizz, but the only member of staff available on our visit (on a Thursday night, which is surely peak time for City drinking?) had a weak grasp of what was happening behind the bar. Having asked other questions and received odd, confusing answers, I just sighed and gave up.
There was, however, a long list of cocktails, with a shortened version of happy hour drinks scrawled in biro on a piece of scrap paper. We opted for a couple of straightforward bellinis and screwed up our faces at the flat, sugary monstrosities delivered to our table. The bar was dead, despite all tables holding reserved signs for guests who never showed. I find it hard to imagine the place being booked up; nobody could be that thirsty on a Thursday.