Can you really have fun on a sober pub crawl?
As rising numbers of Brits turn teetotal and alcohol-free spirits soar, Hannah Betts takes two sceptical friends on a sober night out
Last week, a party took place in the House of Commons at which beer, wine and spirits were in copious supply – yet nobody was left with a hangover come morning. For the All Party Parliamentary Group on Alcohol Harm’s bash, at which revellers found themselves fuelled only by alcohol-free wares, used the occasion to call for clarity in the labelling of low-alcohol and alcohol-free drinks, which are currently befuddling enough to fox even the stone-cold sober.
And they are among us in increasing numbers: Tesco reported a 100 per cent surge in interest in going booze-free during Dry January, and that abstinence will have a lasting effect. Almost three quarters of participants maintain lower levels of harmful drinking for at least six months after a sober spell, with four per cent staying off the booze altogether. Last year, five million people took part in the campaign, meaning that 3.6 million cut down, and 200,000 hopped on to the wagon long-term.
One question I’m invariably asked in my capacity as a sober individual of three and a half years’ standing is: “Can one still have fun”, with “fun” translating not as low-level contentment, but a raucous, in-your-face, letting-off-steam-type bender of which our parliamentarians would be proud.
Friends, truly, one can, so I resolved to take two of my most diehard carousing pals out on a dry night on the tiles to prove it. Johnny only drinks for half the week, but always has a glass in hand when socialising. His goal is to cut back still further. Bert, on the other hand, is a spectacular booze hound, who has no intention of stopping either in this life or the next.
I’ve enjoyed some of the best, worst drunken nights of my life with this pair. The question is: can we do the same sober?
The Daily Telegraph’s wine expert, Victoria Moore, has long imbibed in a more sophisticated manner than we were wont to: “It’s wonderful to see how much bars and restaurants have expanded their non-alcoholic repertoire over the last two years,” she tells me. “Shrubs – homemade fruit vinegars – are popping up all over the place and lots of venues have nonalcoholic cocktail lists.
“Of course, no one can talk about this without mentioning Seedlip, the alcohol-free spirit, which is brilliant. Places like Spring and the Mr Lyan bars in London have also been great innovators. What I love is that it’s much easier now to go out and mix it up a bit: start with a glass of champagne, pull back with a Seedlip, then maybe order a single glass of wine with food.”
For those of more bacchanalian intent, Laura Willoughby, of the mindful drinking organisation Club Soda, is an enthusiastic sober bar crawler. “We host one every month,” she enthuses. “I recommend swinging by one of the many Draft Houses: they have a great alcohol-free beer range and they have just created a faux gin and tonic with Square Root soda. Soho House is very good with Seedlip, Kombucha, Cold Press,” she adds. “As for clubbing, I’m a techno fan so most of the clubs I go to are not very boozy. We also run listings for dry dance nights” ( joinclubsoda.co.uk). The boys having been frisked for hip flasks (not guilty, on this occasion), our party convenes at Park Lane’s Ella Canta, the creation of Mexican chef Martha Ortiz, whose mocktails I have been craving since I sampled them at its launch last September.
Ortiz refuses to see non-drinkers as second-class citizens, plying them with flower-bedecked Aguas frescas, consumed with gusto over lunch (and between her knockout margaritas). Bert eyes the wine list mournfully, announcing that he is “never knowingly sober after 6pm”.
Still, there is consolation to be found in waitresses dressed as Frida Kahlo serving us the world’s prettiest concoctions. My favourite is the Tamarind and Serrano Chile Granite, doubtless because chilli induces a hedonic high, and teetotallers need all the highs they can muster.
The boys go wild over the more delicate delights of the Coconut Rose and Lychee Water. There’s a lot of boisterous laughter. When we attempt to stand, we all feel a tad giddy, which I attribute to being drunk on atmosphere; the chaps to the sugar hit.
On to celebrity favourite the Chiltern Firehouse, a mecca for all things Seedlip. Time was when one had to use all one’s wits to hunt out the world’s first distilled nonalcoholic spirit. Now it’s available from Tesco and is a fixture at every party. Its two versions – herbaceous and spicy – are mostly quaffed with ice and tonic. However, bar genius Max Vasey decides to shake things up a bit for the mocktails we consume with supper. There are Seedlip martinis to accompany our crab doughnuts, brain-fizzing Seedlip sours, zesty Penicillins – even bracing Seedlip shots.
I am in seventh heaven, in a particular swoon over the martinis – as brusquely adult and uncompromising as the original. Johnny is less convinced, describing them as “water with a bad taste”, until I point out that this is exactly what the uninitiated would say about gin or vodka. “Oh, yes!” he concedes, knocking one back with relish. So convincing are the sours that it’s difficult to believe they’re not the real Mccoy, while cocktails with food feels fabulously Algonquin Round Table, even if the chaps worry that sobriety is denting their joie de vivre.
Over at the Connaught Bar, where we head for a nightcap, superstar mixologist Giorgio Bargiani explains: “We want sober people to be presented with something with as much nuance and elegance as the alcohol drinker,” noting that the latter are often jealous, seeking to corrupt its mocktails with the hard stuff.
We all succumb to the charms of the Old Flame, a smoky – and far more successful – incarnation of the espresso martini. As for the Beating Time, don’t let the presence of beetroot discourage you – it’s a complete corker.
Bargiani’s sober taste notes are a revelation, while his energetic “throwing” of a virgin Mary between receptacles has to be seen to be believed. We are all more than a little intoxicated, and conversation turns to tales of romantic misadventure, even without Dionysus smoothing the path.
All of which means that it’s time to dance – with wild talk of pulling, even – despite us all having partners at home.
“Good Lord,” cries Johnny, “not being hammered means one can actually hear the nightingales in Berkeley Square!” The consensus is that they may be sparrows, but we take his point.
At the nightclub at which I have booked us in as VIPS, a furious member of staff informs us that we are “three hours late” and that the dance floor “never opens on a Wednesday anyway” with a froth-mouthed hostility that is exactly how I remember nightclubs from my youth.
Relieved of the horror of dry gyrating, we amble off into the night, Bert declaring that he will “require a Valium to sleep off all this fizzy pop”. Nevertheless, both assure me that: “They wouldn’t have missed this for the world.”
Would they do it again? “On and off ”, “during Lent”, “without the Lemsip-tasting ones”, comes the collective response. With over a century’s stalwart boozing between us, let this go on record as a triumph.
Alcohol drinkers are often jealous and seek to corrupt mocktails