The American Bar in London’s Savoy Hotel is hard to get in to on a Monday at 5pm. This might be the only bar in the capital that is hard to get in to on a Monday at 5pm – bucking a nightlife trend that’s been driven by, in no particular order: puritanical youngsters who don’t drink; an exploded pipeline (2023) somewhere in the North Sea; misadventures in Iran (2026); and, I dunno, George Osborne? Am I contractually obliged to say that? Never mind. My haggling with the maître d’ (or “hostess” if you’re American and still buy Playboy) for a two-top is welcome: in these dark times, there is still a bit of seedy fun to be had out there. The bar, which opened in 1893, has seen many famous patrons cross its threshold: Winston Churchill, Marilyn Monroe, Silver Spoon. But more than anyone, Ernest Hemingway’s pickled ghost haunts the floor – conspicuous with a Martini in hand, 15 parts gin to one part vermouth. Churchill was a robust drinker, but we may have lost the war had he shared Ernest’s habits. I am here with the New Statesman’s bluestocking online editor – more of an Austen girl, I suspect. But we are celebrating the 100th anniversary of The Sun Also Rises, Hemingway’s first and greatest novel. (Any views to the contrary will be warmly received by our letters pages, and icily received by me.) I order one Manhattan and a Gin Martini – dry with a twist – for the lady. And then I wonder what Hemingway would think two female colleagues might talk about over a Martini after work: man’s implacable urge to dominate and be dominated by nature didn’t come up. @finn_mcredmond newstatesman.com/silver-spoo…