Review of The Laslett 5*

The Laslett. There it is, hiding behind its grand West London fence, white, low-key, pretending to be other houses. It isn't hiding, but it doesn't care if you notice. Superb. It has a little blackboard, just within sight, enticing you to come in — have a coffee, enjoy some posh, you deserve it (we do! ). But despite the lovely sign, the warm invitation, the punny name of a hipster coffee, you cross that transom and head inside with a little trepidation. It's so nice, so stylish, like a middle class Hempel (remember that place? ) that it's still a little intimidating for a loser like me. What could be in there? Are Mick and Keith sitting inside, discussing interest rate policy? Is Paul Smith at the bar with sketchbook, designing some sort of mad wallet made from the dorsal fin of a blowfish? It's understated and small and posh and rebellious and artsy and simple and elegant and full of lovely chairs and surfaces. So far so good! It is a wonderful quiet cool stylish little drinking place, to be sure. It's styled in the way that New Yorkers think every Londoner lives. But it's also British, which means the service is a bit rubbish. (The British are better at making interiors than serving pots of tea, apparently). They'll tend to not notice you're there, you'll get lost amongst the 'Made in Chelsea' kids, it's an awkward shaped space that lends itself to error. But you know, it actually doesn't matter. What are you in a hurry for? Where do you need to go all of a sudden? Sit down, relax, feel cool, evesdrop on middle-class conversation, enjoy a bit of parquet flooring, stop rushing around. You'll get your coffee eventually, in the meantime everyone passing on the street will think you're waiting while Keith has gone to the loo. I recommend you don't go there… because I want to keep this place to myself. I'm sorry I mentioned it, now.