I had fallen into a conversation at the bar with a man called Steve. Alice, my romantic possibility, waved and said that she would like a Gin and Tonic. “Is that your bird?” Steve said. I nodded. "If you don’t mind me saying. She’s a bit out of your league mate.”
I didn’t mind. We were at Trisha’s in Soho, or maybe the Hideout, or is it called the New Evaristo Club? No one seems to know. It is technically a private members bar but anyone can come in as long as they like the look or you or don’t dislike the look of you too much.
There is a doorway at which a man sometimes stands, you then go through a hallway that looks like the entrance to a not very prosperous accountant’s office. Head downstairs and you come into murky little room decorated with pictures of boxers and mafia types and British and Italian flags on the walls. The tables are formica and the toilets are basic.
The best thing about Trisha’s is that you never know what you are going to find or who you will meet at the bottom of those stairs. That night there was a man playing Kate Bush numbers on a guitar in a trad jazz style.
When I find the entrance I am always amazed that this place is still here or that it even exists at all. It is like a half-remembered film that has sprung to life.
Trisha’s, 57 Greek Street, Soho, London W1D 3DX