Six of the Best – The Ebrington Arms, Gloucs.

The previous evening having been spent yamming down Benson’s restaurant-quality risotto with a shit-load of bin-end Spanish, last Sunday got off to an earlier start than I’d hoped. Rousing me first by opening and closing the bedroom door and then kneeing me in the balls, my youngest niece cold-heartedly broke the news that, as she saw it, I had only three friends, one of whom was a cat. Heavy-eyed, humbled, and putty in her hands at the best of times, I shook a leg and sorted her out a bowl of ‘Krispies’.

With hindsight, I might reasonably have felt  just a tad sheepish around my lunch date for the day, especially having written-up her pub/restaurant/hotel with such brash objectivity last year. (“Hi. Yeah, remember me? I was rude about your business. Wanna go out sometime…?”) That I didn’t, I’m sure, owed as much to her generous nature as it did to a general lack of self-awareness on my part, and considerably less to the courage of any conviction I might have brought to the table.

The table in question had been reserved at The Ebrington Arms. Just north of Chipping Camden, the Hymnal’s been to Ebrington before and the impression its pub always lent is that of a proper, community-driven local. Hosting regular food-led events and offering up great regional product, both wet and dry, the place is obviously, and rightly, appreciated and utilised by the village. It’s traditional, it’s modest, it has a fuck-off stuffed fox on a shelf in the back dining room and, as far as this ship has sailed, is as good a place to get tucked in of an afternoon as there is.

Beginning with bread and olives, we shared (kind of) starters of Filo Tartlet of Mussels, Bacon and Brie, a Twice Baked Souffle of Smoked Haddock & Cheddar Cheese with a Crab Bisque (Both £6, both bloody delicious), and an expertly touted bottle of de-listed Gruner Veltliner (£21). I say expertly in that our server was pro-active and conscientious enough to mention it at all - it would have been very easy just to let us choose from the list -, and also because she smiled so sweetly as she did so that only the most senseless son-of-a-bitch would have had it in them to say ‘no thanks’. We loved both it and her.

Main courses provided probably the main point of contention, though this was relatively minor; the Roast Beef arrived more toward the medium/well-done than the preferred pink. RH seemed happy enough, mind. My roasted, chestnut and sage-stuffed supreme of Guinea Fowl, despite coming with what was my second risotto in 24 hours, absolutely hit the spot. I see sweet potato, I see not a lot else. With these we enjoyed a Central Otago Pinot Noir which, to our disproportionate amusement (I think we were drunk already), derived its name from some sort of indigenous tribal face decoration. It was £23 and a good match.

Desserts, our first ones at any rate, were an Apple, Rhubarb and Cinnamon crumble with warm custard (£5.75) and a Cherry frangipane slice with Cherry syrup and Vanilla ice cream(ditto). With the latter I couldn’t help feeling I’d won, the crumble being served, somewhat affectedly, in a latte glass. No complaints, though. About the food, that is. By now the warm afternoon sunshine that was fair blinding me through the window, coupled with the heat from an adjacent radiator, had lent me a quite feverish sheen. We subsequently finished our wine and, to the relief of my retinas, went through to the bar. For Cheese, naturally.

I hadn’t foreseen the course count spiralling much further beyond a fourth. Nor, however, had I seriously registered RH’s plea not to judge her if she ate a lot. I’d never do that, anyway – on the contrary, I’m entirely respectful of anyone that delicate with such a capacity to consume – but we weren’t done by a damn sight. I wouldn’t dare try to absolve myself of any responsibility here either; to keep ordering shit felt quite natural. I do feel a need, however, for appearance’s sake, and for what it’s worth, to give an idea of the time frame within which this all went down. We’d been here since 2pm and, though I wouldn’t know for sure because by now I was proper pissed, I’d guess it was then around 7.30pm.

Terrine of Ham Hock, Black Pudding and Apple, piccalilli bread and onion chutney (£6) was probably the day’s most attractively presented starter dish. Breaded & crisp fried Buffalo Mozzarella (also £6) did exactly what it promised. With wind in our sails we revisited the pudding card too. In light of the stage we were at and how heavy you’d imagine all this must have been sitting, you might have questioned our choices. Mercifully, Marmalade and Chocolate Bread & Butter pudding (£5.75) was lighter than it sounds. Baked Chocolate and Beetroot cake with pistachio ice cream, conversely, was absolutely as sturdy as you might think. A duck sinker? No, too cruel. Weighty? Most definitely. Tasty? We didn’t leave any.

The inebriated, equine-themed encounter we had at the bar with Rod and Patsy rather rounded off a quite brilliant day out. These two were as bananas as the cheese I could just about remember having had a share of not 90 minutes before.

I’d unequivocally encourage a visit to The Ebrington Arms. It’s picture book stuff, outside and in, the service, with the exception of one fairly moody mother who’d deposited our main courses (or should I say second courses…?) with less ceremony than you’d like, was very good indeed, and the food, with eminently forgiveable glimpses given it’s so keenly priced, is excellent. I had such a nice time, and in such good company, I don’t even care that they stung me for a carafe of Montepulciano we never had. It just means I feel less guilty about being so hopped up on Uley Bitter by the time we left that I neglected to leave the tip the whole experience deserved. An oversight that’s since been rectified. I think.

Thanks for coming, Rach. I had fun, man. xx

Poverty and Oysters – The Mayflower, SE16

An eastwards stroll along the Thames Path found my sponsor and I in ‘Rovverhive’. An impressively rock solid relic of an institution, The Mayflower is a Greene King tie that enjoys a sometime reputation for good food. Whilst no doubt a worthy winner of the title as the company’s pub of the year for its dry output, I can’t think the competition was terribly stiff, can you? Also, the concentration involved in finessing the food offer here would seem to have distracted their management from the need, as I’m convinced their landlords would see it, to complement the plates with something to drink. There wasn’t a single cask beer available. While I’d prefer to imagine this was due to a stand they were making against the generally awful, mass-produced piss coming out of Bury St Edmunds nowadays,  I think most likely they’d mis-ordered or otherwise just plain fucked up. An oversight I’d half expect, in light of the gangster-ish goings-on that have historically blighted this neighbourhood, to be compounded by eviction notices being nailed to their door, probably through the tenant’s hands and feet.

The relative embarrassment of menu options to punters had alarm bells ringing from the get-go.  A paper lunch menu, arguably serviceable in its own right, was handed out along with a shiny corporate card pushing specially sourced steaks and such. There was a blackboard above the fireplace which provided unnecessary mainstream width, and a couple round the corner advertising some higher-end, largely fish-focused specials, presumably aimed at anyone making for the upstairs restaurant. Not that, on this occasion, I saw anyone doing that. I sat, my eyes flitting from board to menu and back again, trying to talk myself round to the idea that they throw a load of stuff out at the end of each evening, and away from the notion I was about to opt for something that had been kicking about the kitchen for days.

How far wrong could I go with Sausages and Mash? Besides the inflated price –  £11.95 – which, though reflective of the fairly vulgar volume of stuff on the plate, was too high, not far as it turned out.  I enjoyed it. Less mash, more gravy, and a few more caramelised beetroot bits, and it’d possibly have gone beyond ‘fine’. The snags were decent. Meaty. Pigsy had the most marvellously contrived, similarly costly Ham Salad. The meat itself was obviously freshly and thickly carved but, from a visual viewpoint, was overshadowed by the preposterously arranged cucumber discs that circled the action. They might as well have made a face. He said he liked it.

One thing they seem determined not to do here, on any account, is bring you cutlery. Food? Yes. Tools? Forget it; that’s your job. What a brilliantly, belligerent approach, I thought. It’s one of those inexplicable, identity-affirming insistences that, rather than discourage a return, would actually serve to entice me back. It’s like observing someone you know full well has seen you try to avoid eye-contact, and just as funny. “Anything else you need?”, they might conceivably ask. “Err, a knife and fork…?”. “Yes, well, you know where they are…”. For the benefit of anyone who might want to, they’re stashed in bureau by the back door. Condiments are in the cupboard underneath.

It could be a great venue this. The building has loads of integrated personality – stone floors and stained windows – which the Greene King concept appears intent on nullifying with gas fires and painted literary slogans (although one, as you can see, offered up a snippet which couldn’t apply more accurately to the overall experience if it tried hard for a thousand years) and not having any bloody beer. I mean, I wouldn’t have ordered one if they had – I don’t like their beer, it’s crap - but I’d been so well prepared to have a Guinness because I knew I couldn’t stand the alternative that when there wasn’t one I was so disorientated I ordered a juice. A juice. Jesus.

Allez les Vampire Bleus – The Red Lion, SW13; The Dean Swift, SE1

Beat don’t stop. Back earning my bread and butter from a practically unheard-of-in-hospitality Monday to Friday gig, one is reminded of the plus points of previously having one’s weekends accounted for virtually by default. For one thing it’s cheaper. And it’s healthier. It’s true to say, if not for the fact I opt to undertake the four-mile-round commute to work on foot, and the fact there’s a cross-trainer opposite a projected movie screen in the front room of my, quite frankly, hilariously spacious living accommodation, that my recent and ongoing Saturday and Sunday leisure pursuits would otherwise have perpetuated some substantial, well-earned weight-gain. However, loathe to let smugness set in around my still being able to snake into a 32″ jean, I regularly remind myself that, as a consequence of my actions, my insides must resemble mid-1940′s Dresden.

Saturday saw us at Barnes’ Red Lion as a stomach-lining stop-off for the brothers, Pigsy and Sniffer, the latter of whom had snared four tickets for the France game. My ticket was a bag full of goods both brewed and baked, the plan to get par-boiled here, fall asleep infront of the game round the corner chez cousins, and then reconvene with the boys after the match. Went like fucking clockwork. Not forty minutes after the final whistle were we together in the parlour sipping Vampire Blues, a cocktail recipe The Hough recently smuggled out from lower east-side lounge, Death & Co.

But to lunch. It’s funny, for all this is a sturdily assembled, genuinely homely pub, to me there’s something rather too formulaic about it. As it’s a tied Fuller’s house this might well be stating the obvious and, although I’m well aware there are those in this category that enjoy a very decent reputation for food, this always limits my expectations in regard to the level of quality I’ll get. Also, prudish though it may sound, the degree to which the place was populated by such a mixed and family-orientated social demographic, rather than speaking in terms of an evident and worthy balance to the offer here, lent it an indescribable sense of the so-so. In terms of tucker, that is, the beer is as well kept as it might be.

Four out of five of us chose what would be the first of a brace of burgers (£9) I’d enjoy over the course of the weekend, Big Bentz going for sausage and mash. My patty was nice and pink, however the untidy, uneven distribution of items on the plate meant that there wasn’t too much here to write home about. The table in the front window is a beauty, though, and the staff polite and eager to sweep it of debris after we re-located there.

Sunday’s Carling Cup final witnessed a coming-together of Danes not seen since a destructive seasonal celebration back at the start of December, among them a number of adopted Arsenal fans. Having had his initial telephone enquiries ‘pied’, Pigsy went down to The Dean Swift on Sunday morning not only to straighten out a short-notice reservation for 14, but to stipulate precisely which fucking table he wanted and ensure the best possible vantage point of the flat-screen. Needless to say he got it.

Front-of-house were somewhat up it against today, an Assistant Manager apparently having pulled a sickie, and one or two of the kind of oversights easy to make on orders of this size were perhaps to be expected. Mind you, our table was visited enough times by our jovial but understandably harassed server that we might reasonably have expected the more obvious remnants of its previous occupants to have been dealt with long before they were. I mean to say, a quick wipe wouldn’t have hurt.

Appetisers consisting of an especially pokey Piri-Piri chicken and Calamari were hoovered up before the widely ordered burgers arrived. Mine was delivered rare rather than medium rare but, in a happy twist of fate, was infinitely better for it. Hearty and juicy and desperately bad for you, this must be how happy Elvis had felt in the days before he took it upon himself to start bastardising his meat sandwiches with peanut butter. Delicious. Helping it down were a procession of pints of Oakham White Dwarf (4.3%), interspersed by a sharpening Punk IPA, some experimental Kernel coffee beer, and a couple of Brooklyn EPA’s (6.9% and really, really splendid).

After the result had gone against form, the majority of the party – well, everybody except me – drifted off, and my ‘one for the road’ evolved into a ‘half-dozen for the pub quiz’. I came second last, although can’t help but feel I might have been handicapped, not only by the assholes marking my paper who tried to deduct points for there being more than four people in my one man ‘team’ (?!), but by the Breconshire Pale (3.7%). In an effort to show willing ahead of St David’s Day, I might, just might, have inadvertently written some of my answers in Welsh.

Iechyd da, y’all. In like a lion, out like a lion.