Jim S.
Yelp
In an unbelievable display of balletic, manual dexterity, the bartender at The Gibson kept me mesmerized for much longer than planned. Watching her and her team work was exhilarating and exhausting (in a good way!).
Having discovered this architectural cocktail establishment via Google Maps which indicated a mere 5 minutes' walk from my hotel, I approached to find a woman standing guard at the door. Communication device in-ear and a welcoming smile, I was asked if I had a reservation. For a bar? Well, it was Friday night, but still... No, I admitted sheepishly. Was I alone? Yes, regretfully. Well then, allow me check with my colleagues. With the press of a button and a sotto-voce inquiry, this very accommodating Cerberus revealed there might be a place for me in this establishment that could, according to the fire marshal, hold but thirty-five souls. She entreated me to wait but a moment.
Lo and behold, there was room for this thirsty traveler and that space was directly in front of the hardest working bartender in London. She was not alone. In fact, she would have been unable to accomplish her feats of mixological miracles without the help of her trusted team.
Although I sat not three feet from the alchemist in question, a waitress came to take my order.
One look at the menu and I was stumped. Could she make a recommendation? "What do you like?" Fortunately, I was prepared.
"I enjoy a smoky peated Scotch," said I.
"Then I suggest The Garden of the Sun King." But of course.
I watched, entranced, as the bartender, accompanied by an equally dexterous colleague, proceeded to prepare vessels, concoct flavor-enriched libations, garnish them to a fare-thee-well and decorate them in the most amusing ways imaginable. My poor attempts at gobsmacked photography cannot do these creations justice. I can only commend you to their own Gallery for the faintest hint of what was fashioned before my eyes. One need only peruse the menu for a glimpse of the possibilities.
But I can tell you that the dizzying pace and gymnastic, free-style choreography was entrancing.
The waitress brought each order to an associate who fed the requests to the bartender, all the while, preparing certain ingredients that would be required in drinks he had not yet relayed. His deft anticipation put in place the dozen or so components required for each recipe.
Those ingredients were numerous beyond reason. Spruce Resin Infusion, Nut Brittle with Salted Yopol Pine Fir Smoke, and Forest Bee Skeletons to name a few. The crew arrives early every day to prepare what must be a thousand syrups, brines, oils, compotes, jellies, mulled cordials, macerated fruits, relishes, bitters and powders, and arraign them explicitly so that the bartender can take hold of without trepidation, wield without worry, and employ without embarrassment.
The bartender worked inside a sacred space. She gamboled while agitating the cocktail shaker. She swayed to and fro while pouring infused liquids from one metal receptacle to another at arms-length. She spun, reached, ducked and leapt about like a gravity-defying Cirque du Soleil performer.
She was tuned to a rhythm only she could hear and her movements were graceful, acrobatic, and rhythmic as she seized one tincture after another. All others gave her room to grove. After my second drink, I discerned the light tap on a shoulder, the brief brush of a hip, and the elegant exploit of an elbow to indicate who was moving in which direction in the exceedingly small working space.
These people were not a team, they were not colleagues, they were a troupe. They are a finely-honed, well-rehearsed, marvelously tuned ensemble, acting as one.
Almost forgot to mention. The drinks are beyond delicious and the piano player was extraordinary.
Five stars.
