Thursday night, East London, and the rain is doing that soft Camden-clichΓ© thing against the glass. But inside 193 Hackney Road, the amber pavement lights are glowing up through the bar top like a streetlamp you can lean on, and tonight β the apron is mine. Sager + Wilde is the bar that, back in 2013, took a converted East End boozer and did something radical: it poured iconic Champagne, Bordeaux and Burgundy at almost absurd prices, from a list that, in Michael Sager's own words, "changes daily depending on what new and crazy stuff we are into and what old cellars we raid." The Drinks Business called it an "Edward Hopper-esque Hackney enclave." I call it my favourite place in London to lose a night. So this week, instead of sliding onto one of the worn bar stools, I slipped behind the bar β sleeves up, hands busy, the whole shift mine.
Fitted black top, sleeves rolled to the elbow, a double-hinged waiter's friend in my palm. There's a particular confidence in opening a bottle in one smooth silent pull while someone across the bar is still deciding what they want β it's the bartender's version of a first impression. The bar top here is the real protagonist: old London pavement lights, salvaged glass blocks lit from within, warm and amber under my forearms. Behind me, exposed brick and racks of dusty bottles waiting their turn.
Crisp white shirt now, six orders deep, and the wine of the night in my right hand: Jean Foillard, Morgon "CΓ΄te du Py." Foillard is one of Kermit Lynch's original "Gang of Four" β with Marcel Lapierre, Guy Breton and Jean-Paul ThΓ©venet β the Morgon growers who proved Gamay from old vines on the CΓ΄te du Py's decomposed blue-granite slopes could be serious wine: lush fruit, refreshing minerality, quiet age-worthiness. Chilled down slightly and poured into fine stemware, it's exactly the kind of glass that makes strangers at a bar start talking. Watch the wrists β a steady tilt, the ruby ribbon catching the tungsten light, and not a drop lost. That's the trick they don't teach you in books.
Last orders called. Chairs upended on the wooden floor, candles burned low, the neon humming its final note of the evening. My hair has given up on perfection hours ago β I don't blame it. This is the part of the shift nobody posts about: one glass poured for yourself, forearms on the warm glass-block bar, the room finally quiet enough to hear the ice melting. A tired, satisfied smile and one last look across the empty bar. Some nights the best table in the house is behind it.
π‘ Facts verified via Sager + Wilde, Star Wine List, Club Oenologique, The Drinks Business, Kermit Lynch
π You made it to the bottom of the list β I like that in a reader. Next Thursday the apron comes off and the tasting glass comes out. Same hour, new city. Don't be late. β S.
