Battersea's new bolt-hole

Battersea, Saturday night. Two scary looking bouncers are guarding the door of this, the newest bar on the strip (formerly Glasister's bar and restaurant). One of them has a clicker to count people in (and out), the other is keeping him company with muscle-flexing exercises. They allow us in without so much as a by your leave. There doesn't appear to be a door policy. Bouncer One is merely waiting to hit the magic number on his clicker, at which point he will undoubtedly turn native and wallow in the rituals of whoring the door.

We take one of the few tables outside. We're being optimistic because the weather isn't that great, but it's a good spot to people watch. Four braying Sloanes pitch up at the door. 'Are we allowed in wearing wellies?' one of them asks. It seems they are. A pissed girl wearing leopardskin wellies apologises to the bouncer for their attire, explaining that they're just back from a point-to-point and in need of yet another drink. Oh dear.

The weather gets the better of us so we fight our way through the point-to-pointers and head for the bar.

This is not a place to arrive sober. The place is packed, smoky and very, very noisy. The folk inside don't mind, they're here to have a riproaring time and nobody is going to get in their way.

Our bartender is wearing a label on his shirt: 'I don't smoke, I'm trying to quit.' We know what he means. He isn't very happy - neither are we in our sober state.

There is evidence that a lot of thought has been given to the drinks list. Draught beers include the fighting lager, Stella Artois, at three quid a pint, but Hoegaarden and Leffe are also on tap at £4.20 per pint. Bottled beers include Dos Equis (£3.50), Staropramen, Nastro Azzurro, Tiger and Sol (£3 each). Everyone seems to be sucking from a bottle of Sol.

The cocktail list reads well, and at five quid a pop seems reasonably priced. I order a Mojito. The bartender sighs, presumably wishing I'd ordered something easy to mix, given the crowds. It's a good Mojito. I also order a Manhattan, and ask for it to be served straight up. It arrives on the rocks and the bartender, sensing my disappointment, offers to strain it into a champagne glass. I decline and just get on with it.

I suggest we eat. 'Eat? Have you taken leave of your senses?' asks my friend Karin. She has a point. But they offer snacky dishes like hot dogs and nachos, as well as main courses of lobster and asparagus salad (£12.50), sevruga caviar (£35), and weekend brunches. There's just nowhere to lean or place the dishes unless we use the hood of a point-to-pointers' Barbour jacket - now there's an idea.

If I go again I will make sure I'm lagered-up before I get there. It is difficult, if not impossible, to criticise a place which is jam-packed with youngsters having a good time. The other tricky thing about condemning excessive consumption is that it treats as an absolute that which is relative.

The name 'Iniquity' implies a place of gross immorality or wickedness, and there's nothing wrong with that. But I feel that the food and drink is caught up in the romance of noble deeds and the pursuit of unreachable goals - idealistic without regard to practicality. Give 'em lager and burgers and be done with it, I say.