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A West End tent-pole for 101 years, from Coward to Cumberbatch, this is where London thespians pretend to slum it, lifting hamburgers alongside cognac beneath its iconic wood paneling and harlequin mullioned windows. “The Ivy is like a safari park in which the rare and exotic creatures are nurtured,” wrote the Guardian. At its sumptuous flatiron bar—you can drink at it, but you’re required to eat something, too—spotting celebrities, should there be any (try after 9pm), is made all the more subtle. The menu of Ivy classics (lobster macaroni, shepherd’s pie) has been embellished with Asian-ish notions (barbecued squid salad, Togarashi popcorn rock shrimp), which only increases the bohemian affect. From the glass jug on the bar, order a “100 Year Legacy,” which is a never-ending cocktail—a Martinez, an archaic variation of a Manhattan made with gin—dispensed from a communal spout and added to as time goes on. It’s an experiment that only began in 2017, but if anyplace has the wherewithal to nurture an eccentric quirk into long tradition, it’s The Ivy.