We ate in E8 – The Spurstowe Arms, Hackney

The upside of already being hungover before close of play last Saturday, of course, is that I woke up fresh as a daisy on Sunday, ready to go again. Well, I say fresh as a daisy, there was an uncomfortable period between 6am and 7am that took in the bright light of the bathroom and caused me to catch sight of myself in the mirror. Not pretty. Three or so hours convalescence, mind, and all of a sudden The Spurstowe Arms in London Fields had a target on it.

I hoofed it there, of course. Inexplicably, LamBert tends not to do public transport where a blister-bearing, hour-long yomp will cover it. CrowsFeet had bagged us a spot stage-left, and was already chugging on a Landlord. Not long back from a New Year spent in Sri Lanka, the old boy was revelling in the prospect of an old-fashioned afternoon ‘on it’. The tone of his pre-match text indicated as much, the gist of mine that he should refrain from remarking negatively about my new barnett. The wind was whipping round my ears like a son-of-a-bitch.

There were some good-looking, insanely well-dressed people there. And not just at our table. Perched all around the huge, square central bar that dominates the traditionally spare, high ceilinged room were boys that were prettier than girls and girls that were prettier still. With ribbons and stuff in their hair. The Tim Taylor was drinking as well as anything I’d had the day before, which in fairness ain’t saying much, but which, given 15 hours earlier I couldn’t have looked at another pint of real ale much less drink one, was more than good enough. Also £3.50 a pint , in the context of Saturday’s hiked-up pricing debacle, struck me as more than reasonable.

The beautifully written blackboard above us – it would have been a real shame to have to rub out anything they might run out of - yielded a generally appealing food menu which seemed to be being served all day. Hardly famished but acutely aware of a need to consume something ahead of what promised to be yet another boozy night in SW13 (the journey to which I could scarcely have made more convoluted by our choice of rendezvous point), I focused my gaze, with a  degree of difficulty, on the main courses. The roasts looked decent and were proving popular around us although the prospect of one wasn’t doing it for me. Normally I’d question whether there was latitude amongst a half-dozen or so choices for both a Fish Pie AND a Fishcake option but, frankly, either would have curbed what I was craving by that point; a bit of robust gastronomic reassurance. At £10, the Fishcakes, which we both had, gave good value. Two of them came propped on a pile of steamed spinach and with a really nice tartare sauce that there could have been more of. At least, I ran out of it before I was half way through my second cake, but I was slathering it about. And the breadcrumbs were arguably a bit orange. Fucking tasty, though, and all either of us needed to see us on our respective way.

I think little is expected of service levels at places like this in similar locations. There’s often a self-consciousness to the way in which both clientele and staff carry themselves which precedes a polite but stubborn stand-off. I must say, though, that the vibe here was relaxed and even if the welcome wasn’t exactly warm – and if I had one fairly major criticism it’s that the pub itself really wasn’t –  it was pleasant and efficient.

One word of warning. The toilets are accessible on two sides and although shielded by a wall from one access point, the fact that the door to the Gents stands open means that if you were to distractedly ’assume the position’ at one particular, erm, berth, you may just end up inadvertently flashing your junk at someone who, up to that point, had been enjoying a quiet lunch. Having narrowly avoided giving away my own secret I was conscientious enough to pull it ‘to’ behind me. There are others that might be less considerate. Or more ballsy. If you know what I mean.

Cock Out: The Cambridge Dining Company

A shameless plug now for my old guv’nors at CambsCuisine. One which, you should know, would not be forthcoming if their ongoing offer wasn’t one that I whole-heartedly endorse. And if I hadn’t been in receipt of a healthy back-hander. Only joking.

The Cambridge Dining Company is the new outside catering arm of the chaps behind The Cock at Hemingford Grey, The Boathouse at Ely, and The Cambridge and St John’s Chophouses. Aware, I think, of how well the food and service offer at the two provincial posts in particular would translate to private events (like weddings and shit, you know?) the move represents a pretty sequential, fairly inevitable diversification . The trick, of course, will be to ensure that, especially in regard to larger banquet-style functions, that is precisely how it goes.

So, having sounded out a nucleus of the more reputable reception venues in the surrounding area, as well as being geared up, via new partner in parties Simon Day, to make a more than modest mobile fist of it, there seems very little limit to the type of ‘do’ for which CDC will comprehensively be able to cater. The concept offers bespoke menu design, including detailed advance consultations in order that the right package can more easily be arrived at, and brings with it a service ethos pivotal to the existing restaurant set-up, and the reason folks return to these places time and time again.

You’ll be pleased to know that when I was asked if I’d be up for lending a front-of-house hand this Summer, I said, ‘No. I’d only ruin it’. But I wish the enterprise every success, and know exactly who I’ll be coming to for hired help if ever I actually ‘grow a set’ and need my own nuptials nailed.

Mazel tov, boys. Mazel tov.

Rotten Borough

Yesterday I drank until I couldn’t drink any more. To be honest with you, I wasn’t sure I was going to be able to drink anymore after that first hop-laden hit of Punk IPA at Borough’s Market Porter brought me impolitely round to the fact it was barely 2pm. ‘Four Boys’ for a 6% blast of Brew Dog seemed excessive at the time. A frame of reference soon established by way of the local competition, however, made this out to be about the best value we’d get all day. At least until later. Loads later.

This was an impromptu beano. A quartet comprised of a couple of Dels, a dufus, and a complementary Californian, we’d set out to tread the supposedly hallowed drinking turf south of London Bridge. Book-ended by positive pub experiences, the day otherwise offered up one largely forgettable venue after the other, the worst of which, arguably - the highly-thought-of, horribly packaged and sweaty Rake bar - made other Derek of a mind to regale us of one of the most horrendous stories I’ll ever be told in this lifetime or the next. Something about a guy who couldn’t keep it in his trousers and the graphic fallout from an unwanted pregnancy. Ugh. Proof that being asked to cough up £6 a pint can transport you to dark, dark places. Quick, I thought, let’s go before one of us tops ourselves or, worse still, that preposterously attired hippy at the end of the bar starts playing a lute.

But for being with a bloke who knows, I’d never have known Brew Wharf was there. For its size and proximity to Borough’s bustling Saturday market, it’s entirely inconspicuous. Except for the  building, which is cavernous and attractive across a character/contemporary axis - and for the fact we weren’t here to ‘yam’, so can’t comment on the food offer – it was shy on redeeming features. That’s to say I was more preoccupied with their charging £4 a pint for their own sub-4% brews – the Spiced Winter Ale (3.6%) whilst living up to its name was pretty unremarkable – and by their being this quiet on a day of the week that their business, given where they are, must quite heavily depend. Becoming distracted, as we were, by the flat-screen playing music videos in the corner, we supped up and nashed off.

The Southwark Tavern, in more ways than just one, provided us with the strongest selection of ales so far. Del being Del and having the intake threshold of a walrus, went boldly for a Kelham Island five-fer. Sensing a session on a fairly epic scale stretching out before me, I ordered conservatively with Meantime Pale Ale. This, in terms of its appearance, was as moody a pint as I might hope not to be served, and struggled through despite my doubts that I wouldn’t live later to regret it, and ill-comforted by assurances from unsympathetic, disinterested bar staff that that’s just how it is. Busy place, though, feels like a proper pub, and retains a point of interest in that the old, compartmentalised stone layout downstairs gives a definitive sense of the site’s former use as a jail house. Whatever, they’re evidently doing something a number of their neighbours aren’t. 

The St Christopher’s Inn probably offered the warmest and most enthusiastic welcome. It also had in its canon the most elaborate and expensive beer font we’d come across. A grand’s worth of dual-action dispense equipment pouring forth Rothaus Weiss or Pils. I had a Black Sheep for some reason. This was shit, the pub was dead, and we quickly moved along.

The Royal Oak on Tabard Street is Harvey’s only London location. A well-preserved example of how pubs used and perhaps ought to be, its tiled exterior and ornately roomed, wooden interior lends it loads of personality. Unlike the staff, although they did chase us out the door with my iPhone, which I was already pissed enough to almost leave behind. One other striking yet disconcerting feature of the pub, besides the beef suet that afforded my Game Pie such intimidating substance, was that their Christmas decorations hadn’t yet been taken down. Apparently they traditionally refuse to relinquish the season until all their Festive ale is sold out. The dent we made in their stocks of it won’t hurry the process along, but then again its condition meant it would have been better sprinkled over our chips. ‘Ropey’ ain’t the word.

From here it all gets a bit fuzzy. The Wheatsheaf’s subterranean vibe was warm where again the beer was a bit off-colour. I liked the look of the Darts alcove, though. The Barrow Boy and Banker on London Bridge itself was the scene of some shamelessly showy dance moves and a pint of chilled Fuller’s Discovery that drank about as cleanly as anything we’d tried. Certainly it looked the part. From here we did the Draft House on Tower Bridge Road, on which a none-too-complimentary Hymnal entry exists but which has since made strides to refine its visual offer. The low-lighting here, coupled with a more bankable beer offer, I think served to relax what was now an all male line-up increasingly wanting for things to say to each other.

By the time I walked out of the excellent Dean Swift at around a quarter-past midnight, I was already nursing a frown-inducing hangover. Pushing on here with some of the strongest ales we’d chosen all day long – and the day was long – was perhaps a questionable move. It didn’t escape our dwindling, fast becoming unreliable attention, however, that either the Brew Dog or Kernel product here represented as good a quality, competitively priced pint - in as pleasant an environment, it must also be said – as we’d enjoyed since we set out. Del was still ludicrously lucid in conversation, demonstrating beyond all doubt that his constitution is actually cast-iron even if his guts are absolutely rotten. ‘Absconding’ from the fuggy corner, I was extremely grateful that we’d graduated to within spitting distance of home. Fuck knows how them two got back….

Big one that, fellas. Ah-boof.

Lunch, Mason & Taylor, E1

Happy New Year.

I’d say I was back only I doubt many of you realised I’d gone. Well, for a while I had, and in more ways than one. But I AM back, and I hope that in amidst all the blazing imbalance and negativity of latter posts here I didn’t contrive to alienate anyone with my sugar mouth.  I’ve since gargled with good will, replenished my stock of ‘uppers’ and we are, to all intents and purposes, right back on schedule. Thanks for being there and, yes, I mean you, Elizabeth Peacock of J.P. Morgan Chase, New York, NY.. I love that there are people out there I’ve never met who actually give a rat’s arse about this.

Mason & Taylor, a craft beer and British food concept on Bethnal Green Road and an affiliate of Dalston’s Duke of Wellington, was established in 2010. You know this not just because it looks brand new but because it says so in the window under the company’s classically arced logo. Now, it could be that this is a bold statement of their intent still to be pushing the industry envelope one hundred or so years from now, by which time they’ll have enough years of service under their belt that the date will actually mean something. Right now it’s a point of un-interest proving this is an operation that’s been off the ground barely five minutes. Weird call to stick that in, I thought, but ploughed on undeterred.

The styling of the place is spare and industrial and quite literally old-school. The bar itself has an expensive looking carved concrete facade and is manned by courteous, eager to please staff. The beer list is broad and offers variety (12 Cask/Keg, 40 Bottled) although in a less worldly way than at, say, The Draft House or Borough Market’s The Rake. Given the food offer is entirely homegrown, however, I guess this is to be expected. There aren’t many people here, which is a concern, although those that are represent a cross-section of the right target audience; grizzled ale aficionados and aloof wankers.

Having made myself dizzy walking in and out of stiflingly warm vintage stores en route, I opted not to smash myself in the face with a strong American IPA and went instead for a predictable but sensibly sedate Darkstar Hophead. The menu I heard being sold as ‘like tapas’. It is. Small and regular portions of British food to take the edge off as you attempt to drink the list. Priced between £3.50 and £6.00, plates range currently from a Squash and Old Spot Bacon soup and Breaded Whitebait with Lemon and Mayonnaise, to Scotch Quails Eggs with Sauce Gribiche and Salted Ox Tongue with Blackberries, Hazelnuts and Rosemary oil. These can be accompanied with sides (£2.50-£3) and there’s a tight pudding selection. My Wild Boar and Apple Sausages (£5) were great, even if the Beetroot Mash was a little on the cool side. The Parsnips I ordered to go with were deliciously spicy although the ‘arioli’ – as my server called it, making it sound a bit like someone’s nipple – arrived a bit after the event. A pint and a lunch which filled me up for £11.50, though. Not bad at all.

It’s not only about beer, this place. There’s a well put together wine list and the back bar is lined tidily with all the usual suspects. The location’s cool but commercial and most things, on this evidence, point to Mason & Taylor making a name for themselves. As I left I asked a barman whether I might half-inch a copy of the menu. No problem, I was told, and was asked to hold on while he grabbed me a voucher entitling me to 25% off food if I return before the end of January. Such a pro-active and personable approach should mean I’m not the only one.