Not wild about Red Rock

The owners of this bar obviously want to deliver us Brits a slice of the redneck South, although why we should want such a thing is anyone's guess.

The decor is beer-hall bare, with posters on the ceiling and the front of a motorcycle bursting through the wall; seating is sparse and the choice of beer is limited.

The upside to all this contrived deprivation is supposed to be the entertainment: the waiters and waitresses are all 'resting' actors who apparently jump on to the bar for co-ordinated shimmying or bounce behind the drumkit for a blast of live music - but only when the place is busy, and the Tuesday evening I visited certainly didn't qualify.

Our waitress was resolutely earthbound, but very attractive and friendly - and staggeringly indiscreet.

The food list, she explained cheerfully, ripping it out of the menu, was pure invention ('We're pretty crap, aren't we?'). When I asked about crisps or nuts, she volunteered that they didn't sell any 'because they want everyone to get really pissed and buy more drinks'.

Unlike the starvation rations, her comments were a real plus, giving the place some much-needed personality, and she willingly made a terrific Cosmopolitan when the limited drinks list drove me off-menu.

Red Rock has a late licence, and maybe it's a fun place when crowded, but I suspect ultimately its cynicism will do it down.

Red Rock
12, W1B 4DR