A critic’s guide to theatre bars

Head upstairs. That’s my tip for thirsty play-goers during the interval. Most West End theatres are sunken affairs built in scooped-out craters, and this quirk of their design places the stalls 20 feet beneath the earth’s crust (hence the belly-rumble of Tube trains that wakens sleepy-heads during Twelfth Night or The Winter’s Tale). So the stalls bar is invariably a cramped dungeon with flock wallpaper and a ventilation system that pipes fresh air in from the Gents. Up a flight or two, you’ll find lightness, space and perhaps a view. But it seems that bunkers are now the first option of theatre architects.

The Old Vic’s basement bar has been given the full SM treatment. Hot light bulbs glare angrily at sweating walls and stag-beetle black tiles. If you’re not wearing studded lederhosen and a gimp-mask you’ll feel out of place. Three jollier bars await you higher up, including a champagne booth at street level for show-offs. The Royal Court has also opted for the panic-room effect downstairs. And the Young Vic has turned its entire bar area into a concrete sock drawer. It’s like entering an unlit squash court full of pretentious dossers high on Benzedrine and scrumpy.

But it’s easy enough to create a theatre bar that pleases those who use it rather than the Bauhaus community who never will. A high ceiling relaxes the spirits. A carpet absorbs the hue and cry of jabbering play-goers. Ornamental plasterwork, or some other visual distraction, makes a restful complement to a ten-minute glass of Merlot. Scatter some mismatched chairs in the corner and you’re there. Yet very few theatres boast all these amenities. My favourite is the Vaudeville on the Strand whose roomy upstairs bar has a dark crannyish enclave at the far end that offers views over the mobs bustling below.