R J.
Yelp
Graces Alley doesn't exist.
Well, not according to Google anyway, or at least GoogleMaps. And as a girl who relies solely on her iPhone to the extent that I refuse to download IOS6 simply because I can't bear to lose my beloved app, this is troublesome. So, you may end up like me, wandering around Aldgate on a freezing night wondering how long until you get raped/mugged/murdered (this is Jack the Ripper's stomping ground, after all), but then accidentally take a hopeful turn down a small road, and then an alley, and suddenly: lights. Fairy lights. A few people stand around smoking outside battered, heavy wooden doors, huddled against the crumbling brickwork. Step closer and music swells . . . the pulsing sound of a swing band within . . . push open the doors . . . a breath of warm air . . . and you have arrived.
Wilton's is a collection of 250-year-old houses which have been knocked together to form the bar and entrance to a wonderful space which was originally a music hall (and remains the oldest one in London) but is now used for plays and performances of any and all natures. It's sprawling and wonderful and quite literally falling apart before your very eyes, with holes in the wall and railway struts holding up the corridor. Unfortunately the very dilapidated nature which makes it so charming and popular has also served to be its (temporary) undoing, since large chunks have been rendered unsafe for use and you're liable to wander around a corner and find a section boarded up to the general public. But this is what makes it so phenomenally atmospheric. You also know full well that back in the day, this would have been heart of London's slums and (as one friend cheerfully pointed out), each little nook and cranny probably housed an entire Victorian family busy dying of consumption. Nice.
Visit on a Tuesday and the front bar will be filled to capacity with a big band playing tunes from the 1920s-50s and clientele of varying ages embracing the music, all dolled up and taking their footwork supremely seriously, but not quite so pretentiously as their brethren further east. Everyone's welcome to have a go, but you're unlikely to find space (so just stand in the corner, if you possibly can, and see if you can stop your feet tapping and your hips shimmying - you can't - I guarantee it). You'll be packed against people, but everyone is remarkably friendly there. And the great thing is that it's a fantastic place to grab a drink too, since the cocktails are divine. Expensive (£7-£12) but divine; concocted with such dreamy and exotic ingredients as pine syrup and butternut squash liqueur, with names containing Fezziwig and Morocco and garnished with cubes of cheese and miniature scrolls of terrible poetry (honestly). They change seasonally and if you go to the bar upstairs (hidden behind a velvet curtain; check out the hundreds of dusty Hendricks bottles adorning the rickety stairs) then you can have a chat with the barman who is extremely knowledgeable, not only about the drinks but the place's history. Fact: Spike Milligan squatted there once and spent his time making a film about a very bad poet called McGonogal. And this little titbit of information just tipped the balance from four stars to five. Well done that barman.