The Miles & Dane

The receptionist at Danesfield House frowned when Lwa demanded some cheap lager. I could see him out the corner of my eye processing the request as we headed towards the bar. He wasn’t quick enough to protest.

Danesfield is a big creaking country house hotel and spa. Sports cars litter the entrance and anonymous guests mingle with old ladies taking afternoon tea. From war house to HQ of Carnation it was a world away from the dive bar in Paddington I’d been trying to find yesterday.

Wood panelling and ominous black jars everywhere. Gigantic fireplaces and throne like leather chairs. A quiet server with an odd similarity to Lurch Addams delivering scones to the old folk.

We took our place at the tiny bar next to a young couple drinking something complicated, expensive and pink.

Miles the barkeep had some cocktail action splashed up his shiny black suit and was intensely mashing something up for the beautifully tattooed female one. She looked as out of place as we did. Her partner was a David Blaine lookalike with a big fuck-off beard. They thought it better to ignore us than join in.

The assistant came over to serve us first.

“Your day is about to get really bad” said Lwa. She smiled graciously, assuming the worst. This was a hotel bar, she’s heard everything; particularly from a couple of hoorays like us.

“We want a grown up drink, no sugar, suitable for the adult palette, not fruity, a kid would hate it” I said. I forgot the non-alcoholic part but Lwa jumped in.

Server Girl giggled in that I-don’t-understand-what-the-fuck-you’re-on-about kind of way. She hit up Miles, who nodded and continued mashing.

After some time, he joined us and absorbed our demands.

At this point, the vibrations were good. Miles was about doing, not talking. He started pulling flower heads, herbs, citrus juices and zests from hidden jars. No questions asked, no fuss.

It was clear we’d stumbled into the lair of a master. This man knew what he was doing. He was the captain of this bar.

Our wizard disappeared to the back room in search of a special strainer.

The minuscule drop of elixir dripped into a Tom Collins glass. Ice added.

This was exciting. This would be the one.

“There you are, a Virgin G&T” said Miles.

I was stricken. I had seen flowers and herbs and crazy shit go into this drink, it can’t be a Virgin anything. He handed us a Fever Tree each, not exactly not-full-of-sugar. I can make a Virgin G&T with much less effort with a bottle of Seedlip.

Bastard, I thought. He’d hit us for a score by using some pot-pourri and special tools. He was a good guy though, so I played along.

The first mouthful was a crashing disappointment. Just tonic water and cucumber.

The second sip was more subtle with something coming through. We left the bar and walked over the back of the terrace to finish up in the sunshine. The cool couple were muttering as we left. In a country hotel bar, two weirdos ordering non alcoholic off-menu cocktails that came with rules was incongruous at least.

We looked down the hills across Hurley and the river as we finished up. The drink made more sense in the afternoon light and became something. Perhaps my tastebuds are just starting to regrow. Judge for yourself and seek out Miles and crew in the big white house on the hill at the pin below.