A French actor in a dark suit, roughly shaven lamb-chops and sporting a black eye, rattles at the bars clasped to the side of the window. “Lawyer, I need a lawyer!” he screams, before releasing him self from the bars and entering the hobbit hole door in the wall, into…. into what I can only describe as the troglodytes cavern. You’ll understand what I mean when you go in: stalactites drip from the ceiling, wax frames the door. It’s a bar spread over two floors with an open mic and stage; a bar full of locals, a bar full of desperate characters and a bar full of friends, marshalled expertly through the evening by Jack the owner, and his stream of delicious well-priced cocktails. Check out the Caipirinha and demand it’s made with orange juice and cinnamon.