Double-Barrelled Drivel

This, right now, feels like something of a stand-off. The blogging equivalent of an awkward silence. Things being what they are I’ve had little to contribute of late and viewing figures reveal tellingly and quite understandably that the world has gradually ceased to give a monkey’s. I get the message. The notion of me sat, smugly laughing at my own jokes is only likely to keep anyone interested for a time. The thing is, I’m not quite ready to turn this in yet – not least because I’ve the square-root of fuck-all else to do – and so, not having two halfpennies to rub together for a trip to the pub, I’m going to talk to you about a review I read in The Daily Telegraph recently that’s been haunting my dreams ever since.

This article is rose-tinted bollocks, composed very deliberately to echo the style adopted by food writers looking to evoke the sounds and smells of the kitchen by using words like ‘unctuous’ and ‘fleshy’, and going wildly off-piste around the idea of a blackberry crumble. Whilst it’ll no doubt blow the socks off of the sort of people who revel in getting all wrapped up in hats and gloves for bonfire night, regardless of whether or not it’s cold enough to warrant it, this sort of shit is becoming so cliché it actually makes me more inclined to sick-up whatever it is they’re throwing together, rather than to ‘gulp it down with a dollop of creamy Cornish vanilla’.

Let’s pick it apart. “This solid country inn”, the author says, ” is still a place where locals gather at the bar for an ale…and put the world to right”‘. Oh, how very f*cking twee. A stronghold of unbreakable community spirit to which know-alls of all shapes and sizes flock to get pissed and air unfounded opinions made up very largely of political pork scratchings and loudly bigoted bullcrap. To laugh at their own jokes and talk spitefully about “someone or other in nearby Kington”.  ”There’s no piped music – hallelujah”, our expert observes, “just the hum of conversation and the odd “ooh” and “aah” as people get stuck into their lunch”. Oh, leave it out, you complete and utter Wendy.

“Hobsons Best Bitter” he enthuses, ” comes from neighbouring Shropshire and for my money is exemplary, its crisp, biscuity malt character balanced by citrus notes, and a dry and bittersweet finish”. I’m sorry, Adrian, in the cakey midst of all the over-egged, patronage pudding there you’ve lost me. Just so you know, though,  ”for my money” anyone who embellishes a beer’s characteristics to that degree without a hint of irony is a sitting duck for some biting ridicule and, at worst, a very rough shoeing. For Christ’s sake just tell us what it is, what kind of condition it’s in and then sit down and drink it. Don’t, whatever you do, let anyone hear you talk like that in less gentile surroundings than these. And if the best you can gauge in relation to a local cider is that it’s “powerful stuff”, you want to apply yourself seriously to developing your own invective.

The appraisal of the food is equally fudgy. After an “agonising” toss-up between Pigeon and Seabass he testifies, having opted for fish, to being “rewarded (no less) with juicy goujons that go a dream with the chunky, tangy tartare sauce”, and how his boy is “awestruck” by what he had. Take him out more, I say; the lad clearly needs his horizons broadening if he’s still banging on about rare beef sandwich “a few weeks later”. That said, if it means going to dinner with you I’d worry that his freedom to grow as a consumer might be hampered by you stroking your own thigh and muttering under your breath with every ingested morsel.

All of which means, I’m sure you’ve gathered, that given this piece is geared toward endorsing The Stagg‘s impressive credentials, I’d nonetheless need an angle from someone other than this nonce before taking the time to pay it a visit. Well, if it wasn’t for the fact that it’s in Titley I would (hee-hee). His is insipid and unoriginal reporting, man, and it bothers me immensely that just because he has two surnames he gets paid by a broadsheet to dine out handsomely and then feed back derivative cobblers.

Thanks.

Middle of the Roadkill

I’ve had time to sleep on whether the Fox at Loxley (“The Foxley”) truly was, in every respect, as unremarkable as it seemed, or else the reasons I went there at all – escaping the reaches of a local power-cut while keeping within a radius small enough that diesel fumes would get me there and back – had combined to restrict my choice of destination sufficiently that I wasn’t at all enthused about making it. But it was, as it goes, and that’s being kind to it. It’s not unpleasant but it has few enough redeeming qualities that I’d hold it in higher regard if it was more obviously shit and knew it. As it stands, it’s aiming for good while registering just the wrong side of average.

The best bit was on the way there when a deer jumped in front of the car and anything not tethered down was sent careering into the foot-well. One wonders whether after that pint of musty Old Hooky my reactions would have been sharp enough that I wouldn’t now be nursing a crumpled front wing and a broken nose. In fact let’s say, just for the hell of it, that I am and that it wasn’t a deer, it was a wombat. No, let’s say for effect, and in view of the destination being so indescribably dull I’m struggling for worthwhile content, that it was a unicorn and that I was driving a sleigh.

The menu board has been written by someone either with massive eyes or tiny hands – as you’ll see if you get up close enough – and lists an off-the-wall 8oz rump steak with chips, button mushrooms and béarnaise (£15) among its ‘specials’. Being in a lethargic huff exacerbated by the lack of electricity back at the ranch – one which the normally resolute diplomat in me regrets is blatantly colouring the tone of the coverage here – I was inclined to suggest they might increase its appeal by including it and its predictably non-special make-up amongst the regular mains options the next time they do a reprint. As a starter, the availability of Black Pudding on Brioche with a Poached Egg (£4.50) – I couldn’t be sure but I think that’s what it said – at least offered something of relative interest. To me, anyway.

The pub’s interior is such a disgraceful amalgam of mince that, in actual fact and with hindsight, I think I might ‘like’ it. Wrought iron pedestal tables are topped with the sort of pale wood laminate that looks incomplete without glass marks, the carpet is a wildly unattractive leaf-print, and some local artist is utilising the ‘space’ to market the dreadful animal paintings which line the walls and that are available at a monumentally inflated £100 a go. By far the least suitable touch, above the bar, is one of those stained glass panels that would normally have the ‘Cheers’ logo embedded in it.

Of the five handpumps, two were in operation where all had clips attached. The Hook Norton, while it sported the Cask Marque, was decidedly off-colour. That left Black Sheep. Poor. There was nothing wrong with the sandwich I chose but at a fiver or so, not including the addition of a credible starch, the value of that which I’d trousered down the Bell the previous Friday – for those advocates of more modestly assembled pub fayre – was illustrated in a yet more favourable light. This thing arrived exactly as described but tasted cheap and looked cobbled together. Their ketchup was sharp and translucent – i.e. it was neither homemade nor Heinz – which, as an oversight in this realm, is about as cardinal as they come.

You can probably sense it was a half-hearted excursion this one, born out of boredom rather than a usually genuine curiosity or thirst. Becoming increasingly used to either beautifully bedecked boozers or gloriously shabby shitholes this, as a means of expanding my frame of reference, provided a usefully in-between reminder of the so-so, featureless hash people can make of this game. It’s probably fair to say, though, that I already knew everything I needed to know about gaffs like this and The Fox’s general demeanour was only ever about to rub me up the wrong way. Devoid of character and with service that’s as wobbly as it is well-meaning,  I’m pretty sure between you and I we’ve established I’d much rather be insulted by a rotund landlord and trough a greasy pie with pickle if it guaranteed me a decent pint in an environment with an ounce of inherent charm. The Fox has none.

Dead Ringers

I’ve resolved not to dwell on what a nice job the Alscot estate owners have made of rejuvenating The Bell at Alderminster. If nothing else it’ll preclude regurgitating adjectives I’ve hitherto exhausted via my pathetic attempts to pigeon-hole the design ethos of a number of its contemporaries. Let’s just say that as a venue it’s super, and that the atmosphere it has it within itself to cultivate, insipid soundtrack notwithstanding, is most inviting. The rest you can deduce from the accompanying photos.

There is a demographic of consumers, those that pop in/out for a bar snack rather than for lunch, that would balk at a menu that lists sandwiches (with chips, “triple cooked” or similar, and salad) for £7. I kind of get it. If you break it down it’s easy to see that it would be possible for any kitchen to ‘bring it in’ for less. (This is bound to apply across an entire menu, mind you, and if you’re someone for whom this is a genuine consideration the notion of whether you should eat out at all probably demands a re-think). Many people regard bar snacks – among which sandwiches will generally be expected to feature – as a lighter option. “We just want something light”, they’ll say, “we’re eating later”. What this normally means is that they’re dining out later, although I’m sure there are those so preoccupied with a fixed routine based around meals that they’d worry the wheels might come off if, God forbid, they indulged in anything more substantial between the hours of 12 and 2pm. Not being a diabetic myself – although I sympathise greatly with those who have like dietary restrictions, or are required to eat little and often for reasons outside of vanity – this is not, nor will ever be, an issue for me. On the contrary, in that this magnificently conceived, handsomely made-up club sandwich meant it would only have been greed that led me to partake of anything else yesterday, it strikes me that a lunch which, all told, came in at £12 including a pint and a tip, represents about as good a proposition – both in terms of quality and value – as one might generally expect to get. It’d be uneconomical to resist capitalizing right there on its scale and substance. You’ll see, if you link to its site, that the wider menu presents as cosmopolitan a choice as the surroundings demand. It is important to highlight, however, that places as pretty as this can do the basics just as well and then some.

Service at the Bell covered all bases. For all it was competent, however, it was pretty charmless. The girl that looked after me just fine was heard to deal pretty clumsily with a telephone enquiry from someone needing directions, and must be one of those people ill at ease with what she looks like when she smiles; she doesn’t do it much. The check-back on the food stood out as something that I encounter increasingly rarely, mind, and her choice of words in confirming all was in order is what really prompted a post. ”Everything ok for you?”, she asked.

I remember a former manager of mine objecting to the use of the term ‘ok’ in this scenario on the grounds that as a company we aspired to better. While I understand the mentality behind this I can also, as I’m sure you can, smell corporate bullshit from some distance away. To my mind, so long as the person asking the question knows how to talk to people, there’s no way that an informal approach here is going to be interpreted directly as a reflection of the desired impact of the food. It just isn’t. The more upbeat alternatives tend toward fishing for compliments and even smack of an over-confidence that I’m not sure wouldn’t be better illustrated by hanging back and letting diners tell you just how good it was when you return to clear their empty plates. Make no mistake – as a service industry bugger, I’m a check-back man. It demonstrates a conscientiousness that assures a customer their business is valued, an eagerness to put right anything that isn’t already, and acts as a barometer as to how well you’re doing what you do. It serves as a disclaimer, too, against anybody who may – and they’re out there – find cause for complaint a bit ‘after the Lord Mayor’s show’. In this instance and in this environment – this is LamBert’s Hymnal, remember, and we’re dealing very largely with pubs here – it’s not what you say, it’s the manner in which you say it. This lass asked me because she knew she had to but it wasn’t her choice of words that gave her away.

In a similar vein – I had to get this in somewhere – I recall another ex-colleague of mine once telling me that he’d rated his server at a City steakhouse on the basis that when he’d asked for water, she came back very deliberately with the option of still or sparkling. Again, therein lies not only the difference between corporate and independent training, but also between individual and professional values. I’d encourage anyone on my team to sell-up where appropriate, to promote a premium product over pouring spirits on the grounds that it’s superior, or to suggest side-orders where necessary. But manipulating people to spend money on something that falls out of the sky, especially in times of such economic and ecological concerns, would betray my integrity and that of any business I represented. It doesn’t sit well and in this climate, as I say, they’ll see you coming a mile off.

It’s nice to see a commercial and residential property administration take hold of a site on its land and, on the face of it, execute it as well as this. They have the very decent Warwickshire Beer Company exclusively produce for them an Alscot ale and much of the produce comes otherwise from the estate grounds. The building and gardens have been beautifully done. There’s an air here, though, that from the point of view of personnel, the management of the place is rather being kept ‘in the family’. Senior front of house staff are a tad rigid, a bit – dare I say? – old for the concept they’ve created, and the overriding impression, whilst I struggle to put my finger on how I know, is that they’ve promoted somewhat short-sightedly from within. I mean, fine if you’re primarily a catering business, but not necessarily if your bread and butter comes from elsewhere. The overall package suffers as a result. They’ve consulted and spent money in good areas, but appear for all the world not to have looked very far for the individuals that ought to be its lifeblood, that give a place its energy. In my experience you can’t compromise here and properly distinguish yourself.

Is there a Doctor in the House?

I regularly refer back to the page here entitled Ethos. Not, I should point out, to congratulate myself on how eloquently I’ve laid down my philosophy, more to ensure that while the style of/approach to venue appraisals may vary, the principles upon which opinion is formed remain constant and true. Paramount to the method of assessing a business’ delivery is an appreciation of where it is coming from. We’ve covered this, I know, it’s just that before I condescend to criticise anyone’s approach I feel I should occasionally reiterate mine. I would love purely to be contentious for entertainment’s sake but it’s in my nature to rationalise. It’s what sets this thing apart. That and the fact it’s piss funny.

I made a specific visit to the Church Street Townhouse website ahead of mine and the Doc’s Stratford sortie on Thursday because I thought if it was open yet it would be a good place to take him. It’s a joint venture this although one assumes the lion’s share of the capital has been pumped in by Sue Gray, a lady with a pretty exceptional track record of acquiring freeholds in enviable locations, establishing them a reputation for good food, lavish interiors and particularly sweet service, and then selling them on for a large profit. The formula’s tried and tested, the set-up nothing if not professional. Which is why I was surprised, having made alternative dinner arrangements, to find it doing brisk business despite its homepage professing it still to be a work in progress. While this is hardly the end of the world – though it might teach me to pick up the fucking phone –  I just know if they sat and thought about it, for all that they’ve done an extraordinary job on the place cosmetically, the owners will feel it’s sold them short of creating the optimum outward impression. In the short-term they missed out on my business anyway, and if I have their attitude right that will bug the shit out of them.

Obviously, having confirmed in person that the place was trading already, we went back for breakfast. Its visual impact is quite stunning and, in that they invite you in the literature to have a poke around, they absolutely and quite rightly know it. I wouldn’t necessarily have called it what they’ve opted to call it, mind you; while it quite possibly used to be a house and is in a town, to me it ain’t a townhouse. I’m sure technically they don’t have to be but in my head townhouses are Georgian. Inside it applies very well, outside it just doesn’t fit. From one angle, in line with its immediate surroundings, there’s evidence of its Tudor beginnings. From the front it’s ugly, imposing and has battlements. I mean, I don’t suppose the Church Street Fort has quite the ring of the Townhouse but I’m certain there would have been some compromise that meant I didn’t keep coming back to the notion of them having lifted the name – and the food concept, which isn’t a million miles away – directly from Soho’s Dean Street version. Still, the interior decor and furnishings are ‘fabulous’, and touches such as the piano that’s been converted into a dumb-waiter, – there’s also a working one that’s played every day for an hour from 5.30pm – and the restored bread oven in the back ‘Library’ Bar give a design-led but homely feel.

The welcome was initially lukewarm although admittedly Doc and I were plainly hung over and fannying about wondering where best to sit. I did also hear our waitress confess to her associate that she too had a proper head on and since, particularly in this industry, turning up for work whilst still over the limit is a rolling rite of passage if you’re to retain any semblance of work-life balance, I’ll be arsed if I’m going to judge her too harshly for it. Said associate was as close to perfect as front of house staff get. Just delightful in her manner, warm and considerate, proficient in everything she did, and I would like very much to settle down with her if not just to buy her something really, really nice.

The food we enjoyed very much, Doc snaring a Smoked Salmon Omelette for £6.50 while I went Eggs Benedict at £7. If I had one minor gripe it would be that although both were textbook, neither were terribly interesting to look at. Visually, my dish was not so much Eggs Benedict as Eggs-Ham-Muffin-Hollandaise. A modest garnish would have provided some colour. If I had an issue with the guy who’d prepared it it would be that I could have done without his all-too-audible clever-dick comments and the way he publicly patronised his commis. If the decision is taken to leave a kitchen open to the dining room it’s to provide customers with a spectacle and to show their food being competently, cleanly, and lovingly prepared. Not to give Chef a stage on which to audition for the part of person I’d most like to smash square in the face with his own grill pan. Tosser.

The Church St. Townhouse is a much-needed addition to Stratford as a town not previously inundated with leisure facilities beyond the RSC and a Morrocan-themed wiggler bar. Those things I have alluded to that perhaps didn’t show it in its best light are easily addressed or accounted for. Keeping the website updated was probably secondary to getting the place operational within a July deadline. And it could be it’s Chef’s first senior position and that the kitchens he worked in previously were contained by a fourth wall. Either way he wants to pipe down but I’m certain the management will see to it. The food offer, being as straightforward and wholesome as it is, will take care of itself, the availability of a solid breakfast and an opulent looking Afternoon Tea takes its appeal right through from morning to night, and the splendidly appointed bar should make sure that as a destination, this place becomes the spot it deserves to be. And you can sleep here. Did I mention that? Yeah, there are rooms so you can stay if you want….

Much Ado About Scoffing

The Doc had stipulated a twin room – even though the canvas at Mar Estang was thin enough that we might just as well have top and tailed – I guess to preclude a hotel receptionist we’d never see again assuming we were Wendys. The room itself was kitted out for disabled occupants. Everything was within reach from a seated position and if we’d wanted we could have circumnavigated the bathroom without touching the floor. Like in the Crystal Maze, only marginally funnier.

We began with a pint in The Encore, Stratford upon Avon’s sister pub to Warwick’s monumental Saxon Mill. They don’t scrimp when they furnish a joint, these cats. It looks a million dollars although not unlike a million other places whose design ethos is something like ‘contemporary comfort’; a contrived blend of armchairs and fancy wallpaper and shit. We each necked a Pure UBU (Purity 4.5%) and the Doc ushered us off toward dinner, probably conscious I was completely out of my depth on the subject of Twitter and drawing attention to us in a negative way.

The last time I ate at the One Elm I got steadily FUBAR on a cumulative cocktail of Speckled Hen, liqueur coffees and champagne and then rolled around on the roof of Benson’s Audi before finally agreeing to make the journey home inside it. For posterity therefore, because, according to its homepage, the Church Street Townhouse‘s eagerly anticipated opening was still a few weeks away, and because we’d been warned off Bernadette’s roof terrace on the grounds that it was both “windy and fucking crap”, I thought we’d settle in here.

Snagging a pint of Purity’s Gold (3.8%) we were nonchalantly but politely pointed toward the restaurant and a big-arse, not terribly well-written specials board which yielded both eventual choices was propped on a spare seat at our table.  Onglet steak (£14 with chips etc ) was competently explained away as a cut and recommended rare due to its ‘fibrous’ constitution. Doc had that. I had Pork T-Bone with Caramelised Apples, Mash and a wine gravy (£13.50). We shared a Cold Cuts deli-board to start (£10.50 and a highpoint) and a decent bottle of Argentinian rouge (Malbec, £16).

Prices – excellent, Food – nice,  Service – suspect. What’s sticking in my throat is an entirely needless approach made mid-starter, over which the Doc and I were making up for lost time, to ask whether we’d be ready for our main courses soon. Although it was clear we’d not finished I gave our girl a window to qualify the enquiry, which I was in no doubt had been pre-empted by a chef keen to get off ( it was 9.30pm after all ). “Would it help you out if we had them now?”, I asked. Don’t forget it’s me; I know my hosts have considerations too and my offer was a genuine one. “No – no rush”, she said. (No? Sod off, then…) After someone came to check again on our progress I relented and insisted they carry on, bring out the dead, wary that the Doc’s Onglet might, as a result of having been resting since their first approach, be more toward medium by now. In fairness it arrived pretty much as ordered. Sure enough, though, while it was perfectly edible, my t-bone had begun to dry and the mash to stiffen, presumably as a result of a lengthy lie down under the heat lamps. It wasn’t a disaster, but they didn’t cover themselves in glory.

Back at the Encore, despite advertising midnight closing from Thursday to Saturday, they had called time. It was 11.15pm. Refusing point-blank to resort to Wethersoon’s we went, at Benson’s request, for a fly by of the aforementioned, soon to be operational Church Street Townhouse. Hang on a doggone minute, though; it is open. For business, anyway, not to us unfortunately, not at this hour (but do keep it here for details of their breakfast). Nothing for it then but to make for wanker-riddled thespian hangout and institute of post-theatre pomposity that is the still-serving Dirty Duck.

Buzzing though it was, two pints of an oddly palatable, normally unmentionable IPA followed by two large goblets of their house red were arguably four steps too far. Not least because, in the spirit of the high-jinx brought on by the accessibility of our accommodation, we’d now taken largely to slating the congregation – from the impossibly chiselled off-duty actor to the vertically challenged ligger lavishing him with attention -, and to letting our gazes linger for too long on this American girl’s thigh-length socks. Alright, my gaze – Doc’s married.

Bedtime reading was a Hungry Horse menu card. Priceless. Well, not quite priceless, but desserts go from 69p.

Cheers, MD. A more adept exporter of Peak District porcelain one could not wish to get smashed with. Take it from me, the future’s Qatar.

Altered State:The Case for the Defence

It’s distressing to me, the frequency with which internet enquiries about this venue or that throw up results and reviews delivered by Beer in the Evening. If this site is “Officially the UK’s biggest and busiest pub, bar and club Guide” then there’s such a precipitous canyon in the market that a genuine industry authority really should corner it. It’s not at all user-friendly, it’s backward in coming forwards with even the most basic information, it’s brown, and it looks like it was designed by Fred Quimby.

That said, having been directed there in an effort to establish the hours kept by The Case is Altered at Five Ways, I did have the good fortune to happen upon the ‘review’ below which, for all the wrong reasons as far its author is concerned, made me all the more inclined to go. What the hit didn’t provide me with, naturally, were the details I was looking for. Imagine my delight then, when re-routing to the relative safety of the Good Pub Guide’s page, to discover not only the required information regarding the pub’s opening times, but that the same tosspot had transplanted, word for word, his gale-force guff on here aswell. Drink it in (I’ve highlighted the best bits in bold);

Despite prior notification and arrangement that 16 Professional men, on a Golf Society meeting, would be turning up for 2 and a half hours responsible drinking, the rudeness and ignorance of the landlady had to be experienced to be believed! This woman is clearly only interested in her“regulars.” Early arrivers at the pub were met with a shout through the window “we open at 6.” One of our party who was driving was the first to arrive in the car park – the landlady required him to move as he was in a spot where her “regulars” parked. She tried to shoehorn the party into a small room off the main area which was clearly inadequate and then insisted that the party squeeze up in the main bar area so the “regulars” could move freely. A extremely poor pint of lager (the rest of us being on proper ale) was met with the response that she wasn’t used to pulling lager as her “regulars” all drank real ale. I could go on. Her attitude was such that we all left after 1/2pints instead of spending what we hoped would be a pleasant evening, and putting something like £400-500 across her bar. Avoid this place like the plague.

There’s no excuse for rudeness, nor any real place for bias in a ‘public’ house, but one can’t help feeling, reading between the lines, that this lot got exactly what was coming to them. There’s been a pub on this site for centuries and it’s obvious to me it’s no longer run for profit so much as it is out of a sense of public duty. While there’s little point in her putting herself through it if her patience or enthusiasm for the task is on the wane, the less the Landlady relies on the business’ income the less crap she’s going to be minded to take. If the tone of this fanny’s complaint is anything akin to that of his enquiry she’ll have been dreading the date coming around since she pencilled it reluctantly into her diary. Though you could argue she might have saved herself some bother and some negative press the moment she smelt a (pompous p)rat, I doubt anything could have prepared her for the righteous self-satisfaction with which these wankers went about setting out their stall. ‘Professional’ in this context is probably the male equivalent of pre-menstrual.

There’s actually a decent rebuff already on the B.I.T.E. site that very pertinently points out £500 between 16 is a far from reserved budget on which to drink ‘responsibly’. The initial argument might then have held some sway had it stipulated the intention was for them to descend in numbers, talk about sports and get completely twatted. As it is, it sounds to me quite simply as though a group of moneyed stiffs picked the wrong venue. It’s kind of what I’m getting at when I urge anyone in this arena not to expect of a place qualities that were never meant to be there.

It’s entirely without pretension, this pub. Tiny and traditional, the welcome I got was as warm as the August sun, the beer –  St George’s Brewery “Summer Breeze”, 3.7% (£2.90) was one of four that included Wye Valley’s highly thought-of four-fer, Butty Bach, 4.5% (£3.00) – as clear as a bell. They don’t do any food that isn’t available in 40g packets, they don’t do music or phones, and quite clearly they don’t do crocks of shit. I sat out on the patio amongst its well-tended window boxes flicking through a tome from the pub library wondering why, if you go to all that effort looking after the flowers, you wouldn’t sweep the floor and wipe the tables out here too. Not a minute later our hostess emerged, blinking in the brightness, with a damp flannel and a stiff brush.

I can quite see that this old girl could have her moments. I can also see how toiling daily to sustain a village institution must sometimes be pretty thankless – I doubt she turned over fifty quid yesterday lunchtime – and that having anyone other than your regulars in the bar must be like having a group of strangers in your living room. Running a pub on these terms is a two-way thing and she wouldn’t do it if, deep down, she didn’t get something out of it. Instinct suggests to me that all she really wants in return is some consideration, appreciation, and a level of understanding as to what it takes to keep place like this going. Tolerating pricks shouldn’t be one of them.