The Butcher’s Took – The Jolly Butcher’s, N16

Outed via a competitor’s website as an impostor to their original concept, The Jolly Butcher’s on Stoke Newington’s High Street comes over, regardless of who you believe and which came first in regard to the claims laid, very much like the film of the book. Not shy of redeeming features in its own right, it’s arguably a more polished yet embellished take on what the recently reviewed Southampton Arms clearly regards as its own original text. On a ‘Tarantino steals everything from Scorcese’ tip, I don’t necessarily see that there’s too much the JB’s has done wrong except hold its hands up to its Kentish Town contemporary having pretty much hit the nail square on the head with their offer. That, and copy their signage almost exactly. Well, no, exactly.

Seven ales sourced very largely from a cross-section of some of the best, most current producers are on handpump - among them BrewDog ( we drank Trashy Blonde, 4.1%, Rip Tide, 4.3% and Punk IPA, 6%), Dark Star, Kernel, Redemption and Thornbridge - alongside three real ciders and a fashionable collection of keg product, from Camden to Brooklyn and back again. The place is painted dark red, outside and in, with one rather garish, papered feature wall. Contained within a single room, the pub has one or two cracking features, most notably some attractively stained glass windows. It’s fairly charmless for all that, mind; it’s big and it’s loud.

The food at The Jolly Butcher’s is served from an open kitchen. Now, we’ve talked for and against this arrangement before, about how professionalism needs to prevail if you aren’t to divulge too many behind the scenes secrets (kitchen staff have been known to graze) or reveal more than you should about the stresses of producing quality under pressure. I’ve seen it done really well. But I’ve also intimated more than once that personalities from front and back of house can conflict where priorities, whilst ultimately shared, can seem in the heat of any given moment to be poles apart.  And it’s here that lowering the curtain on the inner machinations of a pub/restaurant business becomes a genuine risk.

Christ knows what this waiter guy had done but chef was incensed about something. Not in too animated a way, more so in a sinister, physically in-your-face, whispering death way. His heavily tattooed neck, and the fact he kept giving this lad dead-eyes and muttering under his breath long after their one-sided exchange, and longer still after the bowl of dessert around which the set-to appeared to centre had been dropped off at table, just added menace to the whole piece. Poor bastard was scared to death. With this kind of visual dynamic, you need staff disciplined enough to take shit like that outside, and one wonders subsequently whether form over function here comes even close to compensating for the forfeited practicalities of a solid swing door. It only need spill over once.

A few streets over at The Londesborough, a pint of Bath Ales’ Gem preceded a roast which, having said all that, would probably have been warmer where we were. I couldn’t criticise the portion of Pork Belly I got for my money. In the end I needed help. But everything that came with both that and the lads’ Lamb (£16) had been sat for too long under/over inadequate heat while our meat was being prepared. And maybe for the hour or so beforehand.

Imposing building this, and a pleasant enough interior, even if it does smack of someone having converted a Boeing 737 into a cinema. Service was either well-meaning but incompetent (one lass cheerily invited the fellas, unusually and, it turned out, erroneously, to bring their bikes inside), or competent but arsey (the other moodily claimed that this would constitute a fire hazard – which it would - only in fairness to the guys they were all set to l0ck them up on the street before they were mis-informed…) The Londesborough listed their regular menu on a board even though it’s unavailable on a Sunday and then, once we’d decided from a card of what was available, they wheeled what we most likely would have had but were told we couldn’t, right past our table. Then they slapped service on to our bill even though we’d ordered everything, save for a bottle of pretty non-descript Malbec (£20), under our own steam. In most respects except for the company, then, fairly forgettable.

The Butcher’s is eminently worth a punt, though. It’s certainly popular and has its finger, if not on the pulse, then on somebody else’s in regard to its drinks offer. As a concept it’s sold with enthusiasm and the beer is competently cared for. Less can be said, on this occasion at least, for how it carries itself.

Piss and Jodhpurs – A Small Crawl, Stow on the Wold, Gloucs.

After agreeing mutually not to ‘do’ gifts this year, conflicting seasonal schedules had meant the brothers and I had, until now, been unable to follow through on our promise instead to buy each other a hangover for Christmas. The Cotswold town of Stow having been nominated as the prospective scene - its proximity to two out of three of us, plus its high concentration of walkable, suitably spaced pubs made it ideal in principle - the day came, over the course of time, to be christened as above, obviously in honour of the quantity of booze we thereon pledged to consume, and the calibre of punter we hoped might be sharing our (read, ‘my’) dancing space come the close of play.

Beginning at the landmark Kings Arms, a default pint of Guinness – this is a Green King tie - was chewed down as we discussed where on earth the £250,000 reported to have been spent on improvements here recently, actually went. The bedrooms must be spectacular.

Making for the much-fancied Talbot, we bagged a booth away from the loud, mutton-as-lamb ladies that were hanging about the bar and intermittently fussing over a local’s shaggy dog. From here we got the best possible aspect on the highly distasteful mustard and turquoise colour-scheme that ran inconsistently through the bar, and which made the part of the pub we were sitting in feel like it had been appointed with a specific view to hosting young families. Colour-blind ones. Sinking another stout and becoming increasingly fixated on the bar maid’s jeans, we thought better of another and pressed on to the Eagle and Child.

Part of the Royalist Hotel, this was perhaps my favourite of the day’s venues. It’s reputed to be (along with numerous others) the oldest Inn in England, parts of the building dating from the 10th century. It also offered up the excellent pint of Goff’s Jouster which lubricated a conversation on the subject of how, after the success of our combined 100th birthday a couple of years back, we should go about commemorating our 111th. There were a couple of negatives about the place – the pretty soulless, uniformly arranged, unpopulated restaurant space and the fact their blackboard menu looked very much like it had been written by a six-year old – but all in all, rather a charming spot, particularly the small, snug bar area.

The Bell, on the road leading out of Stow to the east, was a shocker. Plunged into darkness on one side by a malfunctioning outside light, I came close to measuring my length over a  prostrate A board, flattened by someone who had blindly tripped on it or else indifferently and, maybe not unreasonably, just kicked it to shit. The place was utterly deserted save for three intimidating looking fellows watching the game. What I drank was fairly much immaterial and secondary to the spectacle of Benson having objected firmly but so fairly to our server’s choice of music that she was minded to stop herself en route to smoke a barely-earned cigarette, and to go back and skip over Avril Lavigne. Not offensive, The Bell, but superfluous to a town that already seemed beset with uninspiring amenities and, let’s face facts, if you’re not going to take the care outwardly to flag up the fact your premises are open, you might just as well sell up and encourage any buyer that, in lieu of a successful change of use application, they’d be as well to live on them.

The television perched in the corner of its bar will be as obsolete as The Unicorn come the digital switch. We stayed long enough for Benson to fail to find the toilet. The White Hart, in contrast, offered a really lovely, characterful, country environment and a very decent pint of Arkells. (Three from the Wiltshire brewery were available). A trip to the loo here took you past a beautiful, about-half-full dining room. We had a choice encounter here, too, with a very drunk man inexplicably armed with a box of Cadbury’s Roses. We got as much sense out of him as we did personality out of the one of two barman who wasn’t evidently the landlord. To the Queen’s…

The Queen’s Head was, by a mile, the liveliest of the pubs we’d visited so far. It’s a Donnington Brewery site and the beer – enough time has elapsed since we were there that I’m not sure it’s reasonable for you to expect me to remember which one of their portfolio I enjoyed – was in good condition. I think, for the record, that in the scheme of a number of recent outings on which I’ve had poured for me some especially moody, lifeless stuff, that is as comprehensive an appraisal of anyone’s wet output as I need give, and a credible nod to the management here. What wasn’t credible was some of the knitwear on show. It soon became apparent, however, that some sort of weird, ‘ironic jumper’ contest was in session, the winner of which, for my money, was a genuinely awful, embroidered butterfly number. Smashing fit on the wearer though. Really. Like a glove.

And so back to the one place that, believe it not, had felt like it could become a destination a bit later on – The Talbot. Said barmaid from earlier was now in attendance in a social capacity and, the more the black ‘buca flowed, the more distracting she became. This wasn’t going to end well. For one of us – I won’t say which one – it really didn’t.

Like Chipping Camden, Stow really is too charming not to be better served by boozers. Two or three had redeeming features where none were great. There’s money round here, and I just won’t have that those who have it to spend wouldn’t do so fairly liberally with the person/business that was to competently package a product and service offer, and properly harness the potential, in any one of the town’s existing sites. None of which got in the way of a quite extraordinary evening’s entertainment, by the way. Strength and honour, family; I think we all needed that.

Lads’ Lunch – Brawn, Columbia Road, E2

I learnt a valuable lesson this past weekend. It’s that I shouldn’t dwell for too long before posting details of a lunch enjoyed on a Friday, lest the ensuing weekend involve an overdue, cataclysmic coming-together of brothers that will serve not only to significantly curtail my short-term memory, but help cause me to misplace crucial reference materials (anyone seen an A4 sheet listing luscious-sounding, predominantly French uses for pig?) along with £40 cash I can ill-afford to piss up the wall, let alone lose altogether. I won’t have learnt, of course, but I am kicking myself. On that, if I may – shit, fuck and bugger.

Brawn, on Columbia Road, is an off-shoot of the highly-praised Terroirs and has been the focus of much written-media attention just lately. For this reason, and that old CrowsFeet, it transpired, is poised to take his pick from one of a number of highly paid new jobs, it seemed pertinent to convene here, for the Hymnal to toss in its own two penneth, and for us to toast my man’s niche marketing, erm, muscle.

It looks nowt from the outside. Non-descript and easy to miss, as much to do with its discreet branding as it is the building’s plain exterior, and being sited toward the eyes-down end of a road that becomes much more beguiling the further east you walk. Inside it all makes sense. A bare-ish white room is enlivened with bright prints and plenty of natural light, and a bar area colourfully accessorised with enough records and books to lend an impression they might retail items beyond those on the menu. The furniture is functional, inexpensive-looking and, to me, made the room feel like somewhere between a school library and a canteen. But in a nice way.

The food was terrific, especially the starters, the menu categorized in no uncertain terms  i.e. ‘Pig’ covered what they had in the way of pig – and in as flexible a format as I’ve come across. Serving all day, you can pretty much have anything, anytime. The majority of plates are small and very keenly priced, suggesting that their intention is for the approach to your meal to be less structured and, as I’m want to say, for you to go little and often. We began with what struck me as a Brawn staple, a ‘Terrine’ marketed just so from the aformentioned choice bracket. For £7 you got more than enough for two to share, and an inexhaustable supply of freshly cut bread. Great. The Chanterelle Mushrooms with Duck Egg Yolk and Toast (£8, I think) was the best bit by a margin and a dish I’d order again tomorrow. We followed with what amounted, despite, as I say, having been subtly directed toward tapas-ing it one, to ‘main’ courses; two of the larger plate options proved just too appealing. The Crow went with Confit Duck leg, Bacon and Puy Lentils (£14), a dish which, though delicious, was a tad dry and, while it was always going to be fatty, didn’t disappoint there either. My Tete de Veau (£13), manipulated tastefully so as to manifest itself in less literal terms than would make many a meat-eater wary, was a triumph in itself, even if it swam rather in the accompanying broth.

Lubricating matters were, first a bottled Pale Ale from the fast-becoming-available Kernel Brewery, and then an amazing value red from the Languedoc, the precise orientation of which escapes me, not least because, unlike Terroirs (who don’t appear to duplicate the title), Brawn doesn’t yet have a web-presence. But mainly because I consumed enough of it that I was too distracted to ask our, frankly, sensational server for a copy of the by-the-glass list. That’s her there. Yeah, I know.

What’s relatively curious about Brawn is its situation. I’d expect Friday to be its busiest lunch outside of a Saturday and Sunday, around which this part of town inevitably comes alive. But it, along with the rest of the street, was fairly deserted. Our experience didn’t want for that in any way, let’s make that clear. If anything, given the level of service we received, it probably enhanced it. But this ain’t the most easily accessed part of town from the point of view of public transport, and one wonders - I have briefly, at least - whether the point of reference that a website offers ( one is coming soon, naturally )  wouldn’t be an advisable feature of one’s offer from the get-go. Maybe they preferred the notion of a lower profile, drawn-out dry-run, confident in the knowledge that, with an established parent restaurant, it’ll ultimately happen for them in the week anyway. For my clumsy-arsed, pissed-up part, it would have been handy for the purpose of this post not to have to retrospectively guess the prices.

Make no mistake though, my published contemporaries are on the money. Brawn rocks. In lots of ways.

Congratulations to my best friend on whatever follows. Cheers to the next chapter, son.x

Holly on the Ivories – The Southampton Arms, NW5

The sort of movies I habitually subject myself to watching are better rated not by my enjoyment of them, but by how much I know my eldest sibling would utterly detest them. Blue Valentine scored a maximum 10. Hauling ass to Camden last night in order to see it meant I would be within striking distance of Kentish Town’s Southampton Arms as a venue at which, over some beers and a slice of pie, I could mull over whether best to string myself up or slit my wrists in lieu of the consequences portrayed by the film of ever falling in love. 

But for a lack of people in three-piece tweeds and cloth caps it would have been easy to assume I’d walked into the pub in 1943. A jangly live piano was being played by a toothless old bird called Holly, accompanied by a couple of old boys on brass. Old but solid-looking wood furniture, bright white tiles and blackboards underpin a utilitarian interior, one that complements very well the categorically no-bullshit premise of the product offer here. Ostensibly they sell three things at The Southampton Arms; Beer, Cider and Meat. For the sake of commerce I think there is a House Wine. Beyond that they appear not to wish to be swayed. They don’t even have a phone.  And I totally respect that.

I began proceedings with Manchester’s Marble Best. This is a pretty ‘tough’ bitter, as B might say, and took some time to settle down and get to look as good as it eventually did in the glass. Speaking of glass, there were six empty ones plus a ransacked pot of mustard on the table I sat down at. I remember thinking the one and only time I’d been here before that there was a bit too much of this going on about the place. The north end of the bar seems constantly to be cluttered with dead drinks and, while the counter is invariably lined with punters, there were windows for staff to work on this. As ever, as a consumer I minded little. It actually became the scene to be strewn with remnants. As a manager I wouldn’t have  been satisfied.

Relinquishing my spot to three folks who needed it more than I did, I took up residence by the coal fire with a jar of Dark Star’s seasonal Over the Moon (3.8%). Dark and mild, this was tremendous and I soon found myself feeling the distinct urge, despite having promised myself a relatively dry weekend and, moreover, despite being here on my lonesome, to tie one on. Resolving instead to go fewer and stronger I moved things forward with a 6% Punk IPA, the scourge of last Saturday, and celebrated with a piece of pork pie. “Which one would you like?”, the girl in the tracksuit top asked me; “Supreme Champion?”. Damn right I want the Supreme Champion. With Piccalilli, and plenty of it.Potentially messy business this, armed only with a knife and fingers. You need the dexterity of a pianist in a bid not to end up wearing it. But then that’s surely half the game.

The real coup of the evening, on an entirely personal level, was becoming re-acquainted with an old ‘friend’. Beer festivals were an annual feature of the calender at my previous place of work and would attract a bevvy of local ale enthusiasts. Not least among them was one old boy with the most magnificent faceful of hair (“..I’m often asked what the ladies think about the beard and I say ‘Well – some are tickled by it…’ “), an encyclopaedic beer brain, and the purveyor of some of the most earnest piss-punditry since Garth Crooks. One afternoon mid-event I was attempting carefully to manipulate a firkin so as to squeeze the last drinkable drops out of the bottom. Just then the tarpaulin started to twitch and out of nowhere this guy appeared at startlingly close quarters with a chirpily charitable offer to ‘chock the back up’ for me. A quality, quality moment although one which, I openly accept, you probably had to be there to appreciate. Anyhow, who, in a chance in a few hundred, and a good 70 miles from his home, do you suppose was in the bar tonight, talking the hind-legs off a couple of unsuspecting donkeys? Bingo, was his name. Night made, right there.

It’s a terrific model this place. Unmoving and uncomplicated in its offer, it’s accessible across generations. Both traditional and cool, it’s also soundtracked by some seriously good vinyl when the live ‘ents’ aren’t in session. The focus on specific product, that from smaller, artisanal producers means it’s bang on the money as far as creating a destination is concerned, and the evolving range and condition of both beer and cider ( a selection of 10 of one and 8 of the other is consistently available ) is second to few, if any. I finished things off with a Suffolk staple - a pint of St Peter’s Best (3.8) which, although it was in prime nick, was arguably the most ordinary drink I had all night – and attempted to explain to some nice lawyer chap I met why a lack of obvious romance during the ‘happy’ bits had unbalanced the film I’d just watched. His penance, I suppose, for he and his friends being allowed to share my table. He didn’t care of course. About the point I was making, that is, not about me wasting his time. I imagine he just wanted the fella who’d obviously just done in four pints in his own company to stop bending his ear about shit so he could get on with his evening.