There is just something about ascending into the pits of a dim lit bar sitting down on a stool and peering through the smoky haze at the multitudes of quality whiskey on offer.
Perhaps it is because it saves a couple of flights of stairs on the way down to a much warmer pit of sin. Perhaps it is because it generally hurts less to fall up stairs than down them. But most likely its because you know you are going to be met with a friendly face of a barman who knows what you want and lets you enjoy it how you want to.
Blankey’s is my kind of place. It authentic. It a has a musk about it that is enticingly wrong and so very right.
I sit, slouch or sprawl on the bar stool resting heavily on the age stained wooded bar top, a Glenmorangie Scotch rests loosely in my hands I am happy. The occasional conversation with the barmen or the odd stranger and the mood set by this dark subterranean cavern is enough to send my mind back to my forefathers. Their quiet talk and big laughs mere echoes reverberating in the memory of the old wood of the bar.
For the more adventurous liquor lovers you can pour over their large range of spirits or allow these guys to show their true talents by asking them to create a cocktail for you.
Blankey’s is a naughty experience. Something warranting the occasional indulgence.