Noble Spot – The Marquess Tavern, Canonbury

It’s hard to imagine, once you’ve clocked a picture of The Marquess Tavern, how in the nicest possible way such a sore prick of a building could be ‘tucked away’ anywhere. Look at it. It’s like an architectural Godzilla. Not unattractive per se, I just wish marketeers and writers wouldn’t try so hard to romanticise the whereabouts of a boozer as if they’re accessed via a time portal at the top of a fucking Faraway Tree. Admittedly, there are those sited so as to justify a big ‘up’. Then there are those whose location will speak volumes in favour of a return visit – and Canonbury is, as advertised, an ‘idyllic’ neighbourhood – but only after the experience has delivered on a product and service promise.

I arrived there hanging. Utterly. Bent out of shape and bruised after taking hours the previous evening to wend my walloped way the six miles from Balham back to Bermondsey, the last thing I needed was a pint. It’s as well, then, that I only had five. Young’s Bitter, refreshingly cold (-er, arguably, than it might have been) and clean.

What a splendid environment to enjoy them in, too. Spare, spacious and traditional, nothing new but, aesthetically, everything good. The spatial segue from proper pub to white-walled dining room is subtle enough that from one you can feel part of the other, but suitably pronounced that if you prefer a more formal feel you can have it.

They have a signature Sunday menu here at The Marquess comprised of a market-value Fore-Rib-for-however-many plus trimmings. Together, a joint for 4 and a joint for 2 between 5 of us came in at £68. Break it down and you should agree that for meat which is sourced carefully, prepared this well, and portioned as amply, that’s pretty good. I’d question whether there was enough of the other stuff to go around - the clincher being that I missed out on a Yorkshire - and also whether I wouldn’t rather just take delivery of my own complete plateful rather than politely sell myself short on what, if I’m honest, in this condition, I’m invariably rapaciously raring to consume. As I’ve said before the visual impact, joint of beef aside, of a meal reduced and presented in terms of its components can be disappointing. But then I’d engaged with the concept in good faith so I knew what to expect.

Service was dressed-down, very relaxed and more than competent, although the boast of one diminutive dude that he could accurately register an order for 20 without writing it down made me will any subsequent attempt he might make to go wildly wrong. It’s just arrogant, that. And anyway why would you risk it? If he’s not prepared to pack pen and paper, I’m not going to repeat myself. Next time I’m part of a group booking here, well, let’s just let the chips fall where they lay…

Thumbs up to the product offer here, though. All food was demolished, including the amenably put-together kids plates. The wine list is thoughtfully concise and commercial but with points of interest (a Hungarian Pinot Grigio, if you will..) and priced to complement a food offer which, in the main, represents excellent value. The draft beer, as I say, was in belting condition, and a  collection of classic and contemporary World shit lines the fridges.

A kick about on Highbury Fields isn’t the way I’d normally opt to digest a large lunch, particularly when factoring in a trip to Upper St’s The Sampler for a thimbleful or two of old vine Volnay. Still, that’s what went down. Sundays are made for routines like this. Whether they’re designed to account for getting subsequently scooshed with your sponsor until late the same evening is a matter open to ongoing debate. An ’Ankle Breaker’ as a delayed digestif ? That’s another. Closed to questioning is whether The Marquess warrants a return. It does, alright?

Thanks to @manne for the on-line tip off. And to Pigsy. Again. And again.x

Photos courtesy of The Marquess Tavern and Fluid London (whoever they might be)

The Fox and the Drunk – The White Swan, Pickering, N.Yorks

There’s a line in Mad Men Series 4 that sees a young, cock-sure creative executive somewhat unsubtley question the motives of a female colleague in carrying herself in a way that would, in any sane person’s eyes, make her appear nothing if not all woman. It’s unrepeatable. I was reminded of it, though, during a Northern night out last weekend that served quite startlingly to highlight the differences between an evening spent here, and an evening spent there. And before I get accused of prejudice on either count, please be mindful not only that I love women (indeed there are those who remain convinced, secretly, that I am one), but I’m also from the North. Still, girls; I’m going to need to see some I.D.. Then I’m going to have to speak to your parents about you being allowed you leave the house like that. And then, just incase you think I’m taking sides, I’m going to sit these grown men down and we’re going to talk about why, in broad daylight, there are police cars on opposite sides of the same street dealing with two separate ‘incidents’, and why, for the love of Christ, they can’t hold their shit together beyond 7.30pm.

The next day, the fog of a brain full of draft Blue Moon having partially lifted, the Fox and I wound the windows down and made for the moors. The White Swan, off Pickering’s market place, continues to crop up all the time in the pages of reputable reference books as an established, go-to gastro place. An immaculately presented pub/restaurant with rooms, it’s an even more welcome, honey-hued sight in the sunshine.

I’d called up, pissed, the night before and reserved a table for two at 2pm. I needn’t have; the place was virtually empty. But at least we knew we were in. And they knew we were coming. I never fail to feel aggrieved at how ungracious people can be if, on arrival, they find the pub or restaurant at which they’ve ‘taken the trouble’ to do the same, is in any way underpopulated. If a place politely prefers to know who they’re expecting it hints that they’re organised, and largely so they that might accommodate guests as best they can. Don’t feel duped or deceived, simply that you’ve done the sensible thing. Better that than turn up on spec to find us full. “I phoned up and ‘they’ said I didn’t need to book!’. You don’t. You don’t ‘need’ to do anything you don’t want to do. But if you phone up at all why wouldn’t you just make a booking anyway? And save us all a headache.

Not a soul

To have been bothered by the peace and quiet possessing the Swan’s dining room on this occasion would have been to engage with it in the wrong frame of mind entirely. It was excellent from start to finish. Starters were a little ‘trad’ but offered choice. We shared a really nicely presented Ham Knuckle Terrine (£5.95). Main Courses of Pork and Lamb (£11.95) were ample and well-cooked, albeit the Rosemary Roast potatoes promised with the latter never materialised. I got potatoes, they just weren’t as advertised. Desserts (also £5.95) were beautiful, on the plate and in practice. One Sticky Toffee, one Lemon Tart, all insanely well priced, served with enthusiasm and impeccable manners. There was just one minor shortcoming; a failure to replenish cutlery between starters and mains, about which they were unnecessarily apologetic, and which would likely have gone pretty much un-noticed but for the fact the place carries itself in a way which implies oversights would irk them.

Going back, I’d probably opt to eat in the bar. It just feels nicer. The restaurant, though attractive, is mildly affected. The gas fire, where there are real ones to the front of the building, seemed a bit out of place. And those screens, appointed intermittently so as to break the room up a bit, by design lent a mis-placed, medieval mood. I would replace those or, better still, just take them down. They don’t need them. Inexplicably quiet for a Sunday Lunch, either Pickering, too, had been pissed the night before, otherwise it has no idea what it has here. I’ve come to know folks in this corner of North Yorkshire can have (not do, ‘can’ have) conservative, old-fashioned tastes. Perhaps reticent to accept what a decent dining experience costs ‘these days’, they’re letting about as good as it gets for the money pass them by.  

Tony, Leslie..; always a pleasure. The Fox, cheers for lunch, man. x

Guy’s on the Keys – Simon the Tanner, SE1

Simon the Tanner stood empty until about three or four months ago. Out on its arse a bit along Long Lane, SE1, it is however close enough to the south end of Bermondsey Street that the lads behind The Queen’s Head in King’s Cross thought it’d be worth some investment. Initial signs are that they’ve been vindicated, having harboured a popularity presumably driven by a drinks offer that draws notably on a modish portfolio of brewers. I’d take them to task (indeed, Derek already has) over whether a cask ‘selection’ made up of a mild, a black IPA and a porter (as it was when we first came here) is conducive to this preposterously warm, late Spring weather we’ve been enjoying. Then again who, if any of us, could see that coming? The point is that their take on who’s doing what well just now – Kernel, Windsor and Eton, Harviestoun… – is pretty much on the money.

They’ve made a nice enough job of laying it out, apparently having opened the entrance up so as not to funnel folks in down a narrow corridor, and filling the resulting alcove with an upright piano (getting hammered tonight by diminutive Frenchman, Guy) and a tucked away table for two. It’s smart but relaxed and the welcome warm. Particularly on this latest visit, whereby my sponsor and I were greeted by handshakes and a drink from one Royal Wedding reveller who, clutching my wrist, countered my surprised thanks with, “always a pleasure for an officer of the army”. WTF, I think, is the ‘down’ abbreviation.

Principally the menu concept at Simon the Tanner, while a touch too obviously derivative of certain other pubs of  prominence, is right up my street. What better to wash down good beer – and the beer here is good – than a Caesar Salad, say, a Pint of Prawns, Fish Pie or a Beef Stew? Nothing over a tenner either. Nicely considered, I thought, perfectly pitched.

Terribly done. Presentation, content, quality; all dog. Were my associate not such a game bird, I’d have been apologising throughout. The Prawns (£6.50 Pt.), which we shared, were disconcertingly cold and utterly flavourless for that. The Beef Stew (£9.50) seemed to be enjoyed although there was an element of car crash about how it appeared on the plate. The Ploughman’s was baffling. Short of one or two traditional components, the only straightforward bit was Mrs Kings Melton Mowbray Pork Pie. That was fine. Croxton Manor Mature Cheddar, though, came sliced as though to be distributed atop several burgers, and Crusty bread cut as if to dip into a soft-boiled egg. Hands down, it was the weirdest £7.50 I’ve spent (or had spent on me) in this environment in recent memory. Running a close second was the slice of millionaire’s shortbread masquerading as Chocolate Caramel Cake (£5) that had gone into the oven along, apparently, with the accompanying  ice cream, and been allowed to melt until it looked shit. The crumble was clumsy but passable.

To sum up then, I’m a glad I held fire on bigging up this place too much before I actually came to eat. I mean, the appraisal of its wet offer is about where it would have been, but at least now the balance can suitably be restored. I’d urge you to drop in for a drink. They’ve got some good stuff and you can tie it in, as we did, with a Budvar Dark at the Draft House and a swifty at the, er, Dean Swift. For Christ’s sake, though, eat before you go. Unless you’d be happy with wasabi nuts, that is. They’re the tits.

With thanks to Liz. Sorry for referring to you as ‘a game bird’. Appropriately, I just knew you wouldn’t mind. Thanks also to Pippa Middleton. Obviously.

On Tour – Dead Author’s Club, Bukowski, Boston, MA.

Put it down to an undeniable infatuation I have with the country and the fact I feel so at ease there, but I’m even romanced by the names Americans attribute to otherwise unremarkable geographical features. Free or Highways, for example, turn motorways from roads you simply drive along into ones that take you where you want to go. Crossroads become Intersections at which an uncertain decision about direction becomes a choice over which way to turn. And junctions become Exits which get you off.

Anywhere else but here, then, the outlook from Bukowski Tavern would be pretty unpleasant. Since we are here though – which we still are, incidentally, by virtue of faulty plane engine parts replaceable only via Manila –  I’d go as far to say Bukowski actually enjoys its views north across the Massachusetts Turnpike. Propping up what I’m consenting in context to call a parking lot, however, it’s still one ugly son-of-a-bitch. The neon notice in the window says “Dead Author’s Club”, the walls are blood-red burgundy and its signage a mustard yellow. Inside, a flyer-filled foyer gives way to a narrow, low-lit, raised-end room. Fixed, leather-covered stools line the long bar and the floor is beaten but buffed brown wood. There’s country music playing , 12 beers on draft, and a whole world by the bottle. Inside, it’s bloody beautiful.

In terms of substance the food menu doesn’t mess around. Nor, having said that, does it take itself too seriously. Quite the opposite. Specials are marketed succinctly as ‘Today’s Fucking Specials’, among them a Hot Dog of the week called ‘The Pregnant Lady’ (with peanut butter and pickles, $5.95) and a Fried Cheesecake Burrito ($2.95). Soups ($3.95) come courtesy of the ‘Soup Bitch’. Despite barely having swallowed a plate of pig and pancakes so large the wags at Mike’s saw fit to call it the ‘Emergency Room’, we of course failed to resist the temptation to get amongst it here as well. Nothing too crazy, just a basket of Sweet Potato Fries with Dijon/Horseradish ($7.95) and a White Trash Cheese Dip ($8.95), and just, you know, to ensure anything else either of us consumed in the next 48 hours would be purely down to greed. I drank Mayflower Spring Hop, McNeill’s ESB and, following two uninspiring spins on the Wheel of Indecision, Mayflower Spring Hop again.

The real feature of Bukowski is its aforementioned Mug or Dead Author’s Club. Hanging above the bar are row upon row of what, it turns out, are individually numbered, glass tankards. Having made the enquiry as to whether they all had an owner, the story unfolded. You get a card. On it is a list of every beer that they stock by the bottle, as well as a dozen boxes to tick for every time you account for one of an evolving draft range. You have 6 months to cane the lot, after which, and once your achievement has been verified, you’re presented with your own 25oz jug, also individually numbered and, presumably in the spirit of the pub’s eponymous late lush, engraved with the name of a Dead Author of your choosing. No duplications are allowed, although the fact Guiseppe Verdi had been sanctioned as the selection of the charitable guy who gave us a sip of his Maibock, there’s evidence to suggest there’s a degree of licence as to what constitutes an author, and if your first choice has already gone. The point of all this, besides the obvious, is to procure the entitlement then to drink from your 2 pint mug for the price of a pint, each and every time you return. That, my friends, I’m sure you’ll agree, is a concept.

It retains a perfectly pitched sense of self, this pub. It specialises without presuming it’s special, its big heart, as you’ll gather from its menu presentation, is worn right on its sleeve, and Nicole, a mine of information not just in regard to beer but to music – her playlist prompted yet more purchases - was as honest and charming a host as you could wish for. It isn’t inexpensive to drink here, but we let Virgin’s layover budget worry about that….

The Wheel of Indecision

Photos by Fuchs and I. Beers were on Branson.