#adventurebar

Last night a group of us went to Adventure Bar, a trendy cocktail bar located in Covent Garden.  I’d heard nothing but stellar things about the place (“I’d say it’s an 8 out of 10,” said the Canadian-alcoholic Sonia, gauging it’s levels of fun) and I’d wanted to go ever since I’d heard its name.  Adventure Bar.  The name seemed to bear the promise of, well, adventure.  Why else would you include the word in the bar’s name, unless it was trying to be a major buzzkill like the final season of Dexter?  (Still not over it.)

Seriously, though, imagine the possibilities — (And I did, just in case you’re too lazy) —  taking shots of tequila with posh, young professionals whose interest in Americans is evident in their asking us to "Keep talking" so they could bask in our accents; spontaneously joining a passing-by Bachelor Party where the groom-to-be is so inebriated that he confesses "I'm actually gay, but don't tell anyone, I need a green card"; going behind the glossy bar and mixing our own drinks in silver cocktail shakers (which you can actually do on Tuesday nights, surprisingly.)  Needless to say, I was mildly curious.

And it was this mild curiosity — me wondering whether or not the bar would live up to its brazen name — that prompted me to make a reservation for 8 of my closest and dearest at 9:30 PM.

I was afraid a group as big as ours wouldn’t get in, seeing as it was a Thursday night and I was calling the day of, so I lied to the hostess and said we were celebrating someone’s 21st birthday.   

"My friend is homesick," I explained.  "We're working in London for the summer and she is having trouble adjusting.  I just want to make sure she has a great birthday, you know?"

"I completely understand," said the hostess in her gravely voice.  "How long have you been working here?"

"Two months."

(This was a a half-truth, I guess, seeing as Tara’s 20th birthday is this upcoming Sunday and she told me the other day that she missed her dog.)  

“We can’t get you a private room,” the hostess said, music playing softly in the background.  “But we can get your a table next to the bar.  Does that work?”

Yes it does, random hostess who sounded like Brooke from One Tree Hill.  Yes it does.

I’m honesty too lazy to write another novella about the events that transpired during our fleeting time at Adventure Bar (2 hours and 16 minutes).  Instead, I’ve decided to include a list of highlights that perfectly emulate the night.  That way it’ll save us both time and energy — me typing away on my keyboard, you scrolling down the page.  Win, win!

Here you go:

Tara on the verge of tears when learning that you had to be 21-years-old to enter the bar.  (She got in, thankfully, due to her misty-eyes and her pleading, “But it’s my birthday party.”)

The hostess mistaking Chelsea for being “Alexander.” (aka me, aka a male.)

Getting escorted to our party’s own private table, like the future socialites we’re bound to become.  (Or, in some cases, the future Lindsay Lohan’s we’re bound to become — I’m talking about you, Elizabeth.)

Enduring the ridicule of my friends after seeing the signs reading “Reserved for Alexander”  on our table.  (I wanted the name to match the one on my credit card, OK?) 

When I asked the bartender what she recommended to drink and she responded with, “Depends, how drunk do you want to get?”

Getting £10 off my first drink because I’d taken 5-minutes out of my day to make the party reservation.  (I got a Long Island Iced Tea, as advised by my new bartender friend, and it only cost me £1.20)

Playing Jenga at the table, as if that’s normal bar behaviour for a 21-year-old boy/man  (Seriously, what do I call myself?)

The random assortment of shooters served to us on a wooden paddle.  (I got the Mint flavour, which tasted like an alcoholic mouthwash.)

The King Pong Drink.  (Served in a red-solo-cup and came with my very own Ping Pong ball, which I continually threw at Elizabeth throughout the night.)

The Surfer’s Paradise shooter. (Oh my god, get in my belly.)

April buying me my second Surfer's Paradise shooter in an effort to apologise for repeatedly threatening my life.

Courtney taking a selfie with a couple of unsuspecting teenagers who were making out shamelessly at the bar.

Watching all my friends embarrass themselves tremendously by singing “Wannabe” in all of its entirety.

Chelsea singing “Dancing Queen” with the energy and ferocity of a washed-up Broadway star auditioning for Mamma Mia.

Courtney ordering Cricket Soup, a cocktail garnished with a real-live cricket lounging on a leaf.

Flicking the aforementioned cricket onto Helen and watching her move like a girl engulfed in flames.

(Accidentally) flicking a cricket into Taylor’s margarita and watching her convulse.

The bartender half-joking, half-seriously telling Taylor and Chelsea to leave for saying, “You kind of look like Taylor Lautner.”

Elizabeth bursting into tears of joy upon hearing “Wake Me Up” by Avicii.

Elizabeth dancing like nobody but me was watching. (Everyone was watching.)

Writing Taylor’s phone number on a cocktail napkin and slipping it to the bartender, the one who looked like the werewolf from Twilight.

Taylor frantically running up the bar's staircase after realising what we were doing.

Taylor gleefully confessing to us that she’d stolen a cup — specially, a pretty green mason jar — from the bar while we were standing in front of the bouncer, who looked like a plus-size Leprechaun, ginger-hair and all.

  And in case you’re wondering, yes, the Adventure Bar did live up to its name.