Promising to put you in a state of brilliant incomprehensibility: The Hunter S. From the team that bought you "membership-less members club" The Hemingway, it's a dark, elegant gonzo watering hole fitted with a venerable mahogany bar, high-class nudes plastering the gents, a table covered with a whole bearskin, and a herd of animal heads that will start babbling incoherently as soon as the midget hands you a silver platter of adrenochrome.
In keeping with the rum diarist's thirsts, the bar stocks a huge library of 150+ brown spirits (sugarcane hooch & whiskey); there's no cocktail list, but the bartenders are well-versed in such matters, and are also more than capable of pouring you a draft of Doom Bar or Timmy Taylors, or of handing you a bottle of North American brew like Sam Adams, Dixie, or Canada's Moosehead, which'll only set you back a buck or two.
While Thompson himself never consumed anything that wasn't liquid, smoke, capsule, or powder, this joint's providing nourishment including tiger prawn carpaccio, sea bream w/ crab, crushed new pots & caper sauce, and a massive beef Wellington for two, or one if you're looking to meet your Waterloo.
They're also planning a menu of gigantic Sunday roasts, with "all the traditional trimmings" accompanying a choice of lamb leg, Scottish beef fillet, or whole corn-fed chickens. No point in mentioning the bats -- you poor bastards will see them soon enough.