Mezcaleria Quiquiriqui ticks all the right boxes for impressing people with your years-old, innate and complex relationship with ‘the Big Smoke’. Whereas really we both know that it’s more a symbol of your innate relationship with lazily trawling the internet in the middle of the night and bleak 4am wanks.
Hassard Street looks like the kind of alley that you can easily imagine smothered in POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS tape with ashen-faced pathologists staggering out of it.
When you get to the bar, there’s a flipbook of individual cards with a description of each of the shots on it. They’re all exactly the same. They all taste like a mixture of Windolene and whooping cough.
Also, be aware that you’re not meant to shot them, even though you’ll want to. Apparently the proper way to drink mezcal is make absolutely sure that it completely destroys your entire throat and sits heavily in your stomach like over-aggressively siphoned petrol.
Quite a good thing about this place as well is the level of ceremony that comes with the mezcal. As if to apologise to you that they’re charging you £4.50 per shot for the kind of thing that would level even the hardiest of tramps, you also get (for some reason) a slice of orange sprinkled with chili powder. Now admittedly, that sounds fucking mental, and it sort of is, but it also sort of works, plus it adds to the whole ‘new experience’ vibe that’s going on here, plus you can pretend you totally know what’s going on.
So there you have it; Quiquiriqui is actually – on top of being a secret kerosene dungeon – is actually a really good bar with great staff. However, its primary usage is, obviously, to try and show off how cool you are. If you’re trying to convince people you’re cool, then meeting them here will make you skyrocket in their estimations. However, six mezcal in, when you’re trying to fight a window and speaking in tongues then you’re pretty much beyond redemption. It’s just a venue mate.
184 Hackney Road,