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It seemed like the whole of London had climbed the 10 flights of stairs to melt on the roof garden of the Queen of Hoxton, shoulder to sweaty shoulder. The peak of those stairs are one summit below mount Everest, I swear and after reaching the top, I felt so sorry for my hot and bothered self. All I wanted was a nice cool beer and a bask in the evening sun.
Then I saw the fish, not in a pond, but an oversized ashtray indicated by the butts scattered at the bottom. The goldfish were slowly dying in hot green water. In between sips of my pint, I kept peering over my burnt shoulder to see if that pathetic fin flap was going to be its last.
It didn't help that the fish resembled Nemo and the reason I can recount this experience in such vivid detail, is because watching them die was like seeing Bambi and Simba lose their parents. Horrendous. So as you can imagine, when my friends were desparate to check out the Wigwam on the roof, I was dubious to say the very least.
After being persuaded and then hiking up the stairs, I was genuinely stunned when I got to the peak. The whole space was engulfed in a Wigwam tent. The floor was covered in a blanket of wood chip with scattered circles of logs for seats. An open cooker topped off this wintery campfire scenario, which you could roat marshmallows and sausages on. The attention to detail continued to the drinks menu with Hot toddys and mulled wine, through to the smell of wood smoke. It felt more like a set from a film than a pop up bar. It's really nice to find somewhere in winter that outdoorsy but is still warm. Cosy up to your pals around the fire and tell tales of your hard week at work until March.
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