Chow. For now.

There’s no easy way for me to say this so I’m just going to come right out with it. Ahem. It’s, er, it’s over. For the time being anyway….

If it occurs to me again why this all started there’s a decent chance I’ll be back in the New Year. You should probably be prepared, however, as I am, that that might never happen.

In any event I’d like to say Thanks for reading.

It’s been fun. Kind of.

(Leaving me) Cold, on the whole

I couldn’t possibly be sure, not being a businessman, but I think this was a business lunch. Butler’s Wharf Chophouse feels like a place conceived exclusively for this purpose. Occupying one of two two-river facing sites at Shad Thames that doesn’t scream ‘hit and miss’, it ought really to have its share of a monopoly here. Particularly today, where you’d think the Baltic temperatures outside would be more than conducive to a menu which couldn’t be stronger on classics if it was in Latin.

The food’s simple and wholesome and the prices are modest. So modest, in truth, that you wonder if you wouldn’t prefer to pay more for certain dishes. This approach only really succeeds, you see, if the pub or restaurant in question can deliver proper value on the plate - visual as well as physical - at the prices they’re charging. And I’m just not sure post-recession punters are as conscious of a pinch as perhaps they were when these concepts began infiltrating a market then insatiable for what Mum use to make. Latterly, I’ve been as unsure half the places that have adopted this approach are trying as hard as they might to ensure they follow through on what, on the face of it, they set out to achieve. The same goes here. 

It’s a mark of the places I’m drawn to/ keep finding myself at, probably, but I’m growing tired of saying this; ‘It was fine’. With neither venue – pale wood and white table cloths – nor service standing out, you’re relying heavily on the food for a flourish. Well, perhaps not a flourish given the style of product here, but at least as being the thing you most remember. What I remember is that my chips weren’t as hot as they should have been. The burger they came with (£12) was soft and well seasoned and I made unseasonably short work of both. Whether because I was hungry or because there wasn’t much of either I’m not completely sure. Pigsy’s Toad in the Hole – three sausages in a big Yorkshire with onion gravy for £10, was reportedly decent. Decent, but not special, ample but not generous, and pretty uninspiring to look at. 

The corporate bumf alludes not only to the views The Chophouse affords of Tower Bridge but also to the comfortable seating from which to take them in. Have to query that. The half-backed horseshoe digging in to my vertebrae did neither my posture, my digestion, nor my ability to absorb information I could barely begin to take in if I was reading it large-print from a poolside hammock, any favours at all. I intimated this was a business lunch didn’t I? Well it was in the sense that before, during, and after, both of us had work to do. For my part, how to do it remains more than a minor issue. Between you and I, free food aside, I’m rapidly discovering Pigsy’s business really ain’t none of mine.

Beef Quirky

Previously a Thai restaurant, The Lazy Cow has had in excess of £1m thrown at its extended reinvention as Hotel, Steak and Ale House. Warwick needed this; Peach Pubs’ distracted expansion means The Rose & Crown (crude re-branding aside) proceeds to rest largely on its laurels, and the last time I put my head in The Tilted Wig it smelled pungently of sick. The degree to which the Cow plugs the gaping hole that exists here for a quality, balanced and well-presented offer to come clean up is more than vaguely questionable. What isn’t is that it at least represents an alternative for people not yet bored with this manner of makeover.

The concept’s decent, its name complements the product and offers an environment,  save for the fact they insist on showing Sky News on mute, in which one might genuinely relax. Rough and chunky wood tables, bright, stainless handpumps, cowhide cushions (obviously), and a fan of daily newspapers, I think, aptly echoes the decorative drill. The staff were pleasant enough, with one angry, Antipodean exception, and the food we ate we mostly enjoyed.

The tariff, when it comes to where their offer’s centred, is certifiable.  Why, for the love of Christ, if you’re content to send pork roasts out at £12, would you not seek to source steak that didn’t warrant an entry-level, meat only, MEAT ONLY, price point of £18? All in? Fine, if the product’s good. For just the steak? Fuck off. For 8oz? No, I mean it; Fuck Off. I’d perhaps protest less aggressively if I’d not been given such short shrift by said ‘Oztrarlian’ in my bid to get my head around whether or not this shit was for real. And this was before the same server poked the proverbial bear in the zoo by failing to fully explain to my sister-in-law the extent of options for kids. I really fell out with her then, and Lazy Cow took on a whole new, double meaning.

Something else that bothered me, on an entirely personal level, was the prat pouring drinks behind the bar. In two visits here over three days I only heard him push one beer, Warwickshire Beer Company‘s ‘Movember’ inspired “Moustache”, and only, it appeared, because he had one. Talking a good game about how you “look after the beers” is fine so long as when someone qualified (and I don’t mean me) comes in and orders one by brewery, you don’t stand, dumb-arsed, as if the question was in Swahili. The fact the management have their staff wear braces (no, not on their teeth), where it’s charming and quirky if they’re competent, just meant this literal clown looked even more stupid than he already did with a turd on his top lip. Yes, I can see you’ve grown a ‘stache. Well done. Now, get on with it.

I’d probably best not get started on the company literature. I’ll only get cross. What I will say is that if you’re intent on charging disproportionate dollar for a steak dinner the least you should be doing is taking a degree of care as to how you market yourself outwardly. Some hapless translation and a Christmas offer that includes a “bowel of spouts for the table”, frankly, creates an impression that’s as uneducated as it is unpleasant. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again; if you can’t spell it, can you cook it?

I feel I’ve lost my thread rather. I’m not at all sure, you see, that I didn’t set out to compliment the Cow on a number of levels. It was harmless enough, I suppose. It’s always nice to be met on entry to a bar by six shiny handpumps. Shit, man, I’d find fun in an insurance seminar so long as the family was there. I just can’t get round the fact the attitude of one staff member almost single-handedly spoiled my brother’s birthday. For me at least. Tell you what, I’ll concede that “what’s the crack with the steak?” is a bit of an airy-fairy enquiry of someone who’s busy, so long as she’ll own up to being an impatient bitch who’s in the wrong job. There, that’s fair, isn’t it?

Sorry these things are so few and far between just now. I rather enjoyed that.

Belated Birthday wishes to Bentz x