A <i>gilty</i> secret

'No reservation? That'll be a tenner,' growls clipboard gorilla. Clocking my ultradoshy (fake) Rolex, he mellows.

Clearly we won't frighten the demi-and beau-mondes enjoying what the press release describes as 'a truly louche, decadent atmosphere filled with die-hard party animals including model Sophie Anderton'. Given the tabloid coverage generated by this troubled beauty, we're expecting baroque 'n' roll excess.

Alas, 'truly louche' translates as 'Hallo, I am Petr from Bratislava. You have fire, yes?' as we plunge into a sea of pocket-monied Eurokinder studying at dodgy local language schools. In the long, gold-tinted basement, designer Steve Crummack (Aura) has gone rococo-loco, introducing padded plush bar, gilded mirrors, velvet chaises longues, brass candelabra and twee bucolic murals lining intimate alcoves off a corridor-cum-(empty)-dance floor.

I'm transported back to my childhood and Maison Marcel - the kitsch salon de coiffure favoured by grannies.

For the price of an OAP's Peckham perm, we order cocktails that belie the bar's aspirations. Cheerful staff are willing, but a cloyingly sweet Mojito and a flaccid Martini in place of a Gibson (no onions) are a letdown, while my mate's Smoky Martini request is met with the reply: 'None of us knows what that is. Where are you guys from?' Not from around here, thankfully. With standing room only, headache house and no trace of Sophie, this gilty secret is beginning to weigh us down.