Dear Landlord – The Brasenose Arms, Cropredy, Oxfordshire.

I’m often reticent to engage in conversation with people who sport Festival t-shirts without any irony at all. They tend to be full of piss and wind. Cropredy thus has one particular purveyor of such smoke-filled shit to thank, not only for the pre-conception I’ll guiltily admit I’ve formed of the village’s annual music attraction – the awkwardly named Fairport’s Cropredy Convention – , but for any advance misgivings I might subsequently and secretly have harboured about the prospects for its village pub.

I, of course, know better than to rush to judgement before all the facts are in. Don’t misunderstand me, The Brasenose Arms is not sexy. Chosen as a geographically convenient and, I won’t lie, budget-becoming Father’s Day lunch venue, only the inexperienced would have expected much more than we got for about £12 per head for 2 courses. The service at table was extremely pleasant. Away from table, it was pretty wildly inattentive given there were kids present who were only ever going to be kept interested by the promise of ice-cream. But the cut of the place, and its prices, promised little else, the air of it faintly fugged-up with pot and a distinct lack of pretence that the owners are in it for anything more than the chat, the music and a modest living. 

Which, of course, is absolutely fine by me. Particularly since the previous night’s fly-by had been such a lookalike-laden success. Along with a hybrid of Sting and Freddie Starr (‘Tantric Dad’), we’d arrived in good time to procure front row seats for a live set by Canadian guitarist, David Celia. Nice lad, David, albeit too many of his songs are about dogs. I bought him a beer, myself and each other several (local favourite, Hooky Bitter), and we had a really nice time. The way the Brasenose rearranges its furniture to accommodate the live entertainment can make it a mission to get served, however. Especially as the locals, as is their wont as locals, clamour about the recessed bar, elbows out. Oh, and once in the chair, don’t be put off if a game, ‘does he or doesn’t he work here?’ guy offers to lend the snowed-under barman a hand, then proceed to spend more time deciding which glass to use than he does preparing your drinks. But do check your change.

There’s absolutely nothing wrong with this pub so long as your hopes for it fall in line with the way it turns itself out. It’s a bit scruffy but then its folksy roots befit that. The beer was bright and had life, and the more mature of the gentlemen pouring it, evidently one of two brothers involved here, was an especially affable, after-sales asset. I also liked about it the way upholstered bench seating had been roughly inserted into every available nook in the walls, regardless of the likelihood anyone would, in a million years, be inclined to sit there i.e. halfway along a narrow corridor between kitchen and restaurant. This is the kind of quirk LamBert likes. Gives a place like this personality where perhaps product, presentation and professionalism pale.

Pfff….

Photos courtesy of Gordon Matthew Thomas Sumner and the Brasenose Arms.

Boardwalk Empire – Venice Ale House, Venice, CA

This could have been the worst consumer experience of all time and I wouldn’t have noticed. Actually, I did notice, and from a service aspect, while it wasn’t all bad, it wasn’t the best. Just as at San Francisco’s Show Dogs a couple of nights previous, there was a discernible lack of attention to detail here, a degree of disorganisation that tested your faith as to whether, had they been much busier, the whole thing mightn’t have fallen apart. The point is that I really couldn’t give a shit. I’m in California.

She was just a bit green, our girl, and not terribly smart. And that’s ok. I felt sorry for her, as it goes, particularly when the stress of dealing with two enquiries at once caused her to drop her notepad. It doesn’t look good though when, shortly after having your order taken, someone else comes back to ask not only if, but what, you’ve ordered. What we’d ordered were two Medium/Rare Grass Fed & Finished Beef Burgers, each with Aged Raw Cheddar and Caramelized Onions ($12 inc. the extras), and one Free Range Chicken, Goat’s Cheese and Avocado sourdough sandwich($11). What we initially got were two burgers with Cheese, Onions and Mushrooms, and a small complimentary glass of Malbec to account for K’s course having been farmed out to another table. Alarm bells should have been ringing after the initial but ultimately fruitless approach to re-confirm what it was we wanted. Still, we were way too ‘in it’ to be unduly distracted/disappointed and none of us left much. What was distracting was the guy across the street dressed as a tree, dodging the shirtless show-offs who would intermittently skate by, and in particular the manoeuvre that saw him contort himself and his stilts into the back of a waiting VW.

I’m not sure, you know, going by the extent to which these service standards paled in comparison to those experienced on the east coast recently, that the situation in regard to tipping here shouldn’t be subject to a minor review. It ain’t enough just to turn up, fuck up, smile, and expect to cream off at least 20%. The industry pay structure, presumably, is designed so as to encourage the best out of its players from the point of view, metaphorically at least, that they’ve to sing for their supper.  And by that I mean to say to be fun AND competent. The system already in place will ensure they are rewarded accordingly. Anything short of that, such as at Show Dogs, which we left without knowing for sure each of us hadn’t taken delivery of the other’s sandwich, should be acknowledged precisely in terms of what it is; a relative shambles. In the UK you’d leave nothing. Here, anything less than 15% to a waiter/waitress is like being kicked in the crotch. But it might wake them up.

The beer, around which Venice Ale House bases its offer, is sourced entirely from western states. As an amber man, I began with a Fat Tire from Fort Collins, Colorado. K had a porter, a Black Butte from Deschutes brewery in Oregon which I also tried, but not before going with one of  the same brewery’s Green Lakes. I tend to prefer the darker US brews. I find the sweeter varieties more palatable at the temperature at which they’re served, and also, quite predictably, the hops in an amber ale tend to be better balanced. I’m also bored with being twatted across the tongue with IPA’s so dry and bitter it’s almost worth them coming accompanied by a water chaser. For the record, Fuchs, who’d been dancing to the atmosphere this whole time, enjoyed a jam jar of juice and a protractedly produced Hot Chocolate.

A feature of the VAH offer, true to where they are, is a four or six glass sampler or ‘Skate’ of beer, a skateboard deck customized to hold a selection of randomly or handpicked 40z pours as a means to introduce you to the range available. I’d probably have gone for this but for the fact we were well into pints by now. Another is how sociable their patrons would appear. I shared a visit to the bathroom with Mark from Georgia, which isn’t to imply anything untoward went down in there, rather that, for future reference, ’are you just going in there to pee?’ is all that needs to be asked to hurry matters along when there’s a queue forming and there’s only one John.

As I say, I’m in California. Which isn’t to say all objectivity should go out the window. However the Hymnal’s founded on principles that dictate even the most miserable treatment, where there’s entertainment to be had, can warrant a return visit. From a professional angle there was plenty for Venice Ale House to improve on. From that of a consumer, given the outlook, and that the company was, in the most perfect sense, handpicked, it could have been so much worse.

Kaela. You’re the shit. Thanks for having us. x

Photos courtesy of Venice Ale House and One’s steady hand.