There are bars that simply invite you in – and then there are those what pull you under, like a silk-gloved hand around the wrist. Downstairs at Sucre, Soho’s sultry, subterranean outpost, is decidedly the latter: a dusky, perfumed warren of brick, velvet, and firelight, humming with Latin cadence and draped in the smoky veil of mezcal and mischief.
This is not a place you stumble upon. It is a descent – literal and figurative – into a world where time molasseses, cocktails smoulder, and the walls hum with stories. Conceived as the decadent underbelly of the Marlborough Street mothership above, Sucre’s basement bar is where Buenos Aires meets nocturnal London in a whisper of effervescence, citrus zest and charred spice.
The interior, designed by Victoria Vogel, is part boudoir-luxe, part colonial speakeasy: velvet in the tone of overripe berries, backlit bottles glowing like stained glass, and soft, rhythmic lighting that flatters even the most battle-worn barflies. Though the room was not full the night of my visit, its spell did not depend on a crowd. There was a hush to the space, like being let in on a secret. The quality of the serves and the quiet drama of the food blissfully swept me into their orbit, dissolving any sense of who else might have been around. It felt less like dining in a bar, more like slipping into a slow, smoky dream. Despite the decks and the DJ.
But the true theatre here lies in the glass.
Take the Immigrante: an aromatic fugue of Ojo De Dios Joven mezcal, Aperol, Italicus, vanilla, lime and Ms. Better’s bitters. It enters like a plume – smoky, citric, faintly herbal – then retreats with a whisper of woodsmoke and warm stone. The Piña Nueva pushes the envelope further: Mijenta Blanco, green Chartreuse, fair chipotle, pineapple juice, coconut cream, agave and chilli syrup. Imagine Carmen Miranda on holiday in Oaxaca – fruity, spicy, herbaceous – flirting outrageously but meaning every word. The El Viajero, a brooding union of Montelobos Joven, Hennessy VS, Strawberry purée, and homemade spicy pineapple syrup, is smoky, rich, and – somehow refreshing. An oxymoron in a coupette.
Yet for all the alchemical pageantry, it is the simpler gestures that strike deepest. A mezcal negroni, retooled with reverence, remains my eternal paramour. There is something endlessly sexy and smouldering about that dusky twist on the classic – bittersweet, intense, like a sideways glance across a crowded room.
I will admit, I arrived expecting the usual bar-side compromise – some vaguely warm small plates designed more for soaking up booze than commanding attention. But what appeared from the kitchen was anything but perfunctory. These were not snacks; they were statements. Each dish demanded a pause between sips. The subterranean kitchen channels the open-flame ethos of upstairs through an even more intimate lens.
The Red Alistado prawns, bathed in early harvest olive oil and kissed with cedro, a citrus jewel. Not a lemon, nor a lime, but a citron’s sweet kin, with a thick and fragrant rind. This is seafood with a postcode: sea bream from Dorset, Monkfish from Cornwall, sea bass from Devon – each bite an ode to Britain’s salty fringes. Meat follows the same honest logic: chicken hearts, lacquered in Malbec and 70% chocolate, were rich, playful, and gloriously macabre; the shellfish rice, bristling with langoustine, mussel aioli and intent. But it was the tuna cheek – unctuous, meaty, basted in a peppercorn sauce. A sleeper hit of depth and daring. Even pudding surprised: a sunbeam of olive oil cake, clouded with whipped Jersey yoghurt. It was as if the Mediterranean had been distilled into a sponge.
Soho has no shortage of bars, but Downstairs at Sucre operates on another frequency. It is not trying to be the loudest room (sometimes it was) – it is content being the sexiest, however.
Descend between Wednesday and Friday, anytime from 5 to 8pm, and you’ll stumble upon Agave Hour – a twilight ritual where the cocktails are as sultry as the lighting and priced at a disarming £8. Whether it’s a post-office palate reset or a pre-dinner prelude, these are not your average happy hour pours – they are a smoky, citrus-kissed invitation to linger.
To discover more, visit Downstairs at Sucre
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All Image Courtesy of Downstairs at Sucre.