Amid a positive plethora of celebrity chefs, Dick Bradsell is the closest we have to a celebrity barman. Wherever he goes, a loyal band of followers is never far behind. By Jonathan Goodall. Portrait by David Loftus.
Cocktails have been in and out of fashion more frequently than flares, but Dick Bradsell has stuck with them through thick and thin, quite literally. During the 1980s, cocktails scaled new heights of naffness as paper umbrellas, sparklers and plastic toys became the most important ingredients in thick, gloopy concoctions with names like Chocolate Monkey. For Bradsell this was the 'fast food' era for cocktails and, much to his relief, we are currently enjoying the 'epicurean' phase.
The drinks that are back in vogue right now are friendlier permutations of the lethal dry martini. They are elegant, clear and sophisticated drinks for super-suave sipping. Once again, London's bar scene is booming and Dick Bradsell, who has remained faithful to Mistress Martini, is having the last laugh.
Bradsell grew up in East Cowes on the Isle of Wight until, at the age of 18, he was packed off to London by his mother, who thought it was high time he learned how to behave. "I was a naughty adolescent. You know, a punk. I didn't wash properly and wore dirty T-shirts. Exciting stuff," he explains in his measured, meticulous manner. He arrived in London in 1977, the year of the Queen's Silver Jubilee. It wasn't all anarchy for the young Bradsell, however, as he went to work for his uncle, an ex-air force man who ran the not-so-swinging Naval and Military Club on Piccadilly. But it was here that he learned a bit of good old-fashioned discipline and "just about every single thing you could possibly do in catering".
"I worked there for a year and went from being chef to doing front of house. But I was paid so little," he adds. "A lot of catering is slave labour. I went from there to train with a friend of my uncle's to be a chef, until I realised I'd much rather work front of house and meet people. It's far more exciting.
"I suddenly saw that a lot people working in this industry are trainee actors doing it as a stopgap. I didn't want anything else, and I realised that if you were professional and you kept on doing it you'd get somewhere, especially in clubs and the trendier bars."
Bradsell got his lucky break when his flatmate, who was working at The Zanzibar Club, introduced him to some of the staff who offered to train him up as a cocktail barman. "I saw it as utterly glamourous," says Bradsell. "It was the beginning of the 1980s and the whole thing was brilliant, unbelievable. In the end you really thought you were someone." And the tips were enormous, too. Not surprisingly, he stayed at The Zanzibar for four human years, which is roughly 10 bartending years and virtually a lifetime by Bradsell's standards.
In these days of celebrity chefs - an utterly 1990s phenomenon - Dick Bradsell is the closest we have to a celebrity barman. Wherever he goes, the coiffured quaffers follow, like strange, brightly coloured creatures in search of the next watering hole. This makes him something of an attraction for entrepreneurs launching new bars. "If I'm there it's going to be - or had better be - bloody good or I'm going to lose my reputation," he says.
Since The Zanzibar, Bradsell has worked in about 11 different bars (it's hard to keep track), including The Moscow Club, essential 1980s venue the Café de Paris, Detroit and the Atlantic Bar and Grill, where Dick's Bar is named after him. He recently worked at Pharmacy in Notting Hill, where he had immense fun compiling a unique cocktail list for co-founder, artist Damien Hirst. Brand new cocktails were created such as the Pharmaceutical Stimulant (vodka-based espresso coffee) and the Formalin Martini (featuring fish eggs).
All these openings have taught Bradsell some invaluable lessons. He currently keeps himself busy with a bit of writing, training bar staff (you can always spot a Bradsell protégé because they're taught to actually taste the cocktail through a straw before serving it) and some consulting - he's working with George Salamanis on a private club called The Player for film-industry types to open soon in Broadwick Street.
But at long last he is looking to open his very own cocktail bar, probably somewhere in London's Theatreland. "The best places are run by people who are there all the time. It's like retiring into it. I know that when I eventually do it, I'll be there day and night." And the signs are that, in spite of his years on the move, Bradsell is ready to settle down in 'the real Dick's Bar'. You see, he's been with his partner, Vicki Sarge, who runs the Erickson Beamon fashion company, for 12 years, but it was only last Christmas that they tied the knot. They've lived for nine years in an old council flat, which they eventually bought, near the King's Road. "We actually bothered to get married," says an amazed Bradsell. "But we were in Las Vegas and I think that's just what you do there.
"When I was in the US I saw this sign by the freeway which said 'White Russian with Kahlua - why do you taste so nice?' And I'm thinking, 'God, but they do, don't they?' I think we should start revamping some of those 1970s drinks without bringing the naffness back, because the drinks are not actually naff in themselves." I opine that this should appeal greatly to the smart cocktail set who think drinking cocktails in the 1990s should be all about irony.
"Yes," says Bradsell, but adds: "The cocktail culture is also about being in the know concerning what is a good drink, how you order it and knowing how you want it made. It's a bit like watching Crossroads when you pick up on all the little elements... like Sandy's haircut." Quite.