The Old Man and the C*** – The Hunter S., De Beauvoir, N1

Coming on like first time parents dead set on out-doing their peers, the folks behind Victoria Park’s The Hemingway agonised over it for long enough they saw fit to baptise its baby sister pub, The Hunter S. . Instantly familiar if you know the former but blessed of a better space and some amazing touches internally, God it’s a shame about the name. I mean, I get where they’re coming from, running with the writer thing, the onus evidently being on ones with a rep. But, while I know he was a piss head and a pugilist and used to knock around with Nat King Cole, at least Hemingway’s catalogue carries a bit of the man’s own considerable weight. Landmark though Fear and Loathing… is/was, as far as this generation’s concerned Thompson is all about the excess, and probably now mined mainly by the sort of shithead also taken with Howard Marks.  I don’t know, maybe it shows an appreciation of their audience, being in De Beauvoir and all. Maybe all these staggeringly pretty people would be here anyway if they’d just kept it simple.

Otherwise this is an excellent boozer. There are some near things in this part of town – The Talbot and The Scolt Head show glimpses, for example, the Duke of Wellington is solid but scruffy – but the Hunter S. is the most complete. It wins out, really, by combining a fancy yet functional aesthetic with some genuine application around good bar product. There’s enough of the safe and sound – Landlord and a superb Sharp’s Cornish Coaster –  to offset the comparably kitsch – Lowenbrau, anyone? – and a concise cross-section of the current – bottled Brooklyn, among others.  But the look and feel is also great. The ceiling has the most incredible copper leaf recess from which hangs the showiest of chandeliers. The handsome over-kill of stuffed animals lining the walls are too many not to presume they aren’t deliberately overdone. And the toilets, the Gents anyway, are a reason in themselves to pay a visit here. Fear it, though – if you’re anything like me on a hangover, the ‘art’ in there is likely to have you re-emerge feeling fruity and with renewed focus.

As it happens I was in the grip of hangover whilst there, hence hankering after Fish and Chips. Easy on the eye in terms of a plateful, a largely lovely take on the classic was hamstrung rather by the kitchen’s determination to do chips differently. Not so much hand cut as hand carved, they were robust enough that even triple-cooked they’d have been brittle. There was enough right with it, however, and enough else about the menu to go back for. Service wise it’s a little laid back, and intermittently icy at the bar, but generally well-intentioned and you get a good sense of who’s in charge. At least if the guy I’m talking about isn’t already, he absolutely should be.

Yep, really decent addition to East London’s pub landscape, this. And don’t people seem to be acknowledging that? Sunday evening and, for anyone who landed much after us, there was a distinct shortage of somewhere to sit. With that in mind the management could probably afford to be more economical with the practical population of what’s truly a fantastic space. Not only would it make commercial sense, but would help preclude the sort of slovenly, full length, feet up behaviour brought by one trendy prick ostensibly set on converting a smart settee into a chaise. Oi, Ratface? Yeah, you. Would you do that at home….? 

Wishing y’all a long hot Summer.

Sorry it’s been a while…

Photos not lifted from elsewhere for once. Arse courtesy of Crowy.

Cold Tap – Tap East, Stratford, E20

Pat was ‘in oil’ and worked away a lot, often in some truly miserable places. Like Kazakhstan. He once told me one of his favourite pubs was Murphy’s, an Irish bar in the middle of Amsterdam’s Schiphol airport, his favourite terminus. I think the word he used was ‘brilliant’. A ‘brilliant’ pub. Faintly ludicrous praise for what in truth, and knowing Pat, was probably just a passable travel amenity. Sure enough, having later been laid over between flights connecting to Cuba, CrowsFeet and I found Murphy’s to be exactly that; a pub in an airport.

Tap East is a pub in a shopping centre. Incorporated into the Great Eastern Market precinct of Stratford’s spanking new Westfield, it offers an experience no less transitory. The ambient temperature when we were there didn’t help, a product of the high, open dimensions and glass walls of the retail space it occupies as much as the weather outside. Even if it hadn’t actually been freezing in there it would still have felt cold. But it was freezing and as a consequence Tap East has barely been able to trade beyond 7pm whilst we remain in the grip of Winter. The air in there, they admitted when notifying the ether of early closing, was ‘colder than the beer’. I’d say it was about even.

The beer selection itself is current and varied, if not quite so broad as expected. We drank San Diego’s Stone Levitation at an arguably inflated £6 a pint. I say inflated because I’ve had it elsewhere in London for less and would prefer to think that if one place could afford to offer it for £5 (still a lot but competitive with the $8 you’ll pay in California), so could they. I don’t pretend to know the specific purchasing/pricing considerations of either outlet, it’s just that ever since my one and only visit to Tap East’s parent Rake bar I’ve sensed a sort of righteousness about the way they operate. A feeling that because their set-up rather pre-empted a proliferation of like-minded outlets across London, that their shit somehow smells sweeter. About twenty per cent sweeter. That said, I paid a lot more per pint yesterday and am also increasingly open, it seems, to times being what they are and to the fact that if you want imported draft it’s going to cost you.

The food offer at Tap East consists of Pork Pies, Cheese, and the like. All good in essence. However it’s an area in which the administration evidently has little clue. Or fosters little care. I remember being in Barcelona a few years ago and our guide warning us off the places that would advertise their food with photographs. And not unlike when Chinese takeaways place plastic incarnations of items in the window, Tap East’s attempts to sell up their sandwiches involves plating up a cheese one, with garnish and a few crisps, and leaving it there amidst an unimaginatively merchandised cold cupboard as a measure of what one might expect if one ordered one. Why, when catering to a clientele whose discernment you depend on, would you presume to excite their senses with stale bread? I ask you…

I don’t know what to expect from 2012. Make no mistake, I think the Olympics will be great for Britain. They’ll give the economy a much-needed shot in the arse and, so long as the organisers resist trying to light the torch via another ill-fated River of Fire, the decade or so they’ve had to prepare really ought to reveal Seb & Co. actually could piss it up in their own brewery. At the same time the prospect of a World event on home soil seems to have put our sense of perspective all out of whack. You know? Like, all of a sudden anyone whose bedsit commands a view of the velodrome thinks they’ll be able to rent it out for the duration of the Games and then retire on the proceeds. Not only that, specialist beer pub proprietors are inclined to set up shop at the Mall. Maybe the rent there is as reasonable as anywhere else they’d weighed up, the square footage ample enough that they might economically trade and brew from the one spot. But it’s not a commercial pitch for somewhere that’s niche, and come October time, when everyone bar the local residents forgets where Stratford is, I’d guess they’re going to be relying heavily on their wholesale output if the enterprise is to have legs.

Photographs courtesy of www.ravengarcia.com and food.uk.msn.com

Brunch, AXE – Venice, CA

I’d landed at AXE (‘ah-shay’) distracted. Which, when coupled with the fact I’m writing six weeks or so in retrospect, means a detailed overview of certain aspects of the venue is out of the question. I never used the bathroom there, nor poked my head out to appreciate what’s meant to be some splendid outside space. But I ate and I experienced and garnered enough of an opinion to be able to say, yeah, you’ve got to go.

Strikes me, if you’re going to have pancakes for breakfast, it might as well be theirs. There’s real goodness in this cake’s 9 Grain constitution, even after you’ve drowned that shit in syrup, and matter to its consistency to reassure anyone dubious about how far its $15, berry inclusive price tag might stretch. I couldn’t finish. Not since I’d already made my stomach complacent by pouring into it a large glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice, a latte, and then ordered and eaten a side of crispy Apple Smoked Bacon aswell.

Contextually speaking, eating at AXE adds up. For breakfast for two, sixty bucks with service – while not a lot, really – probably represents proportionately more than you’d usually expect to part with. The costs, however, lie in the conscientiousness of the concept here. Produce is sourced ethically and deliberately and it shows. And the environment they’ve created is pretty cool. Vaguely Scandinavian in orientation, comfy it ain’t, but then commercially that probably aids and abets the need to turn tables over. The expedience of delivery from the kitchen is in tune with that. That from the floor, pitched today somewhere between laid-back and nonchalant, less so. It was hot outside, mind you, and not terribly well aerated inside, but then again I’d expect to notice that more than a native.

You’ll know if you clocked the Gjelina piece that I dig Venice, and in particular Abbot Kinney. Well AXE only adds to it. It could lose some attitude outwardly. I mean, don’t offer optional extras on the menu if they’re ‘out of season’. And definitely don’t inform me they are in a tone that suggests I should have known that. But it has a look and a theoretical approach to be commended and, crucially, the cooking kicks arse.

CrowsFeet. Anything to add….?

Dad’s Mad – Father’s Office, Santa Monica, CA

Father’s Office is a decent operation. Purveyors of a sensational variety of craft beers, they employ proficient, informed staff to pour them, and offer tasty, uncomplicated food at value. Problem is, they do so, at least they did on this occasion, with such self-regard, such a sense of entitlement, that I’ve been smarting about it ever since.

But then maybe that’s as much because, while there, I made a cock of myself. It’s worth saying we’d arrived having spent the previous 15 hours or so in transit from London. I was tired and in no small part, probably, disorientated. Which wasn’t the fault of our hosts. Nor, really, was the degree to which I let their not-unreasonable or uncommon open-seating policy unsettle me to such a state of high fucking anxiety. I was spooned out, perhaps, by the way the dude on the door threw down the deal as some sort of gauntlet to run. The responsibility, I’m embarrassed to say, of being live enough to acquire the four of us the first available berth proved almost too much to bear. I broke into a fit of Englishness so awkward I was asked in no uncertain terms to ‘just relax’ by the nice girl who, under peer-pressure, I’d pestered for a provisional table share. When she and her friend indeed relinquished their spot to us, it was with a politely condescending, ironic hand on my shoulder she said, ‘It’s all yours, baby’. By ‘baby’, she of course meant ‘dickhead’.

Befitting of the format, and pertinent in the context of the unfolding story, the only thing you get served at Father’s Office tables is food, which you’ve to order at the bar. Although it’s not so much served as brought.  Beers you need to get yourself. Which is totally fine. There’s a long list to look at so it’s as well you do, frankly. Less conducive to a comfortable evening is the fact you’ve to eat under the close and intensifying scrutiny of a swelling mass of folks forced to play the game we just had. Boldness and a distinct lack of social scruples wins out here. Manners will only leave you malnourished. Except if you’re two quasi attractive girls, in which case the ‘maitre-d’, presumably in the hope he might score points and subsequently get some, may well assist in procuring you a table.

When the bill landed I opted to pay with what US dollar I had on me. Which is to say with enough to cover the cost of what we’d had and, on balance of an ok evening – company notwithstanding; my friends are awesome – a conservative tip. Knowing full well that would constitute less than, as far as I’ve seen, west coast wait staff expect as a matter of fucking course, I told our server he’d been excellent as I handed over the money. To say how he appeared to accept his share of the change was ungracious is to go easy on him. He clearly felt he was better than that. He probably had been, individually. Collectively, Father’s Office, on the strength of tonight, had not. It’d been intense. Rushed and uncomfortable. And, outside of us having been politely obliged what we’d asked and now paid for, no one had really extended themselves.

So, having gesticulated something to the effect of ‘mean, motherfucking son of a bitch’, our man turned back from the register to find me still there, proffering him plastic. ‘Couldn’t help but notice you didn’t seem too happy about what I’d left. If that wasn’t good enough, mate, take more off that…’. ‘What?’. He was irritated. Self-conscious, hopefully. He should have been. I’d explained my position; I’d just landed in the country. Not only was that all I had, it was all I was inclined to give. Which is why I paid him the compliment. ‘I appreciate you sayin’ that’, he said, ‘but, just so you know, that’s a lot less than we’d expect on top of a $120 bill…’.

Different culture, different pay structure; I don’t care. Unless there’s a hint of appreciation on the part of the person looking after us that the all round experience needs to have been good, and a sense that it’s been, in part, a pleasure to deliver it, you might as well be giving alms as leaving a tip. You expected more, did you? So did I. I wanted to make a point to this guy. Like, it’s not about money, it’s about attitude. So, after we left, I walked to a cash point, withdrew some more wedge and, leaving the guys at the car, went right back. ‘I want all of this to go in your pocket’, I said, handing over way more than our evening had been worth. ‘And for the record, when I leave a tip it’s a reflection on the whole thing’.

I don’t enjoy thinking about it. It makes me anxious and I’m coy about getting cross. And, far from getting my point over, he probably just saw it as him getting his deserts. But it remains the only time I’ve ever been chased out of a bar by staff and have gratitude hurled after me down the street; ‘Hey, Pal! Pal…! Thankyou!’. Whatever, boss. I didn’t do it for you.

Nice burgers, though…

Photos courtesy of those with the presence of mind to take them. And careless enough to post them without thinking about who might use them to their own end. Cheers.

Lady Instead – The Lady Ottoline (prev. The Kings Arms), Northing Street, Bloomsbury, WC1

I once wrote somewhere here that part of the process of reinventing a pub previously dead in the water might conceivably and justifiably involve changing its name. Contentious, as a statement of intent, but carry-offable if you’re cute. If you’re good and your predecessors were especially bad.

I never knew the King’s Arms off John Street before new owners came in and saw fit to call it The Lady Ottoline. Probably wouldn’t have cared to, either. But without disputing the relevance of the title to this part of town, or indeed that the new administration’s general practice would knock that of the old King’s caretakers’ into a cocked hat, the planning department’s apparent insistence that outward evidence of the old name be retained – the windows are embossed accordingly – I’m not sure I wouldn’t have left well alone here. As much as anything because as pub names go, The King’s Arms is a good one, and The Lady Ottoline is not. It’s rubbish.

The overhaul they’ve given it isn’t rubbish. It’s perfectly tasteful, even if its approach is identifiable among a million and one other overhauls affected lately. The back bar configuration in particular, in all its grey-ish wood grandeur, looks expensive and reflects an attitude toward providing a high quality offer. Smart, extendable tables are spaced artfully and ergonomically, the lighting is set to ambient, and the music to a playlist founded in the Forties. Which works in a building whose character charm remains well intact in spite of the work it’s had done.

Fingers and I arrived there early evening and signalled our intention to eat. Knowing full-well there’s a separate restaurant upstairs I was surprised, given the girl who’d met us was dressed differently to her colleagues and apparently in charge, not to have our dining options broken down beyond being told what time the kitchen opened. No matter, we ordered beers – the ales among which were moody – and set our stall out at a table at the far end of the room. The Bar Menu was brought and yielded an infinitely accessible, appetising-sounding selection of everything you’d expect from a good one, priced exactly as you’d hope if it was to be decent. We went balls out for the Burger. A juicy, 8oz bastard with plum chutney, foie gras and truffle mayonnaise. Two of. Great; sounded, and proved to be, exactly what we wanted.

Only then, though, when Fingers wondered out loud if we were required to re-locate upstairs to eat, did an in-earshot, suddenly over-attentive member of staff weigh in with the news that we might just be letting the best in life pass us by in settling for the Bar Menu, that there was a full a la carte card in operation on the first floor. Perhaps you’d have been better off advertising that before we’d chosen from the one menu you did decide to divulge, I thought, and represent the whole offer, rather than decide on our behalf that what was doing downstairs would see us right. The fact it absolutely did is neither here nor there. We could, for all they knew, have been a couple of proper high-rollers, ready to rinse 4 courses of their higher-end chow down with a couple of bottles of Domaine Mestre Michelot Meursault at £54.95 a pop. We weren’t, like, but, you know? At least give us the dime tour. Failing that, if there is a colour option on the burger, give us it. Not to is lazy, if the chef’s amenable – which, if he’s worth his salt he should be – and undoes an awful lot of the work I know the management have invested here to try, as I say, to lay the foundations of  a good gastronomic experience. Afters fell similarly short of the mark. A (deliberately) Burnt Lemon Tart with Lemon Souffle and Raspberry Jelly just about gave value at £5.95, the Cheeses, at £2.50 a go across four, did not. At all.

On the subject of the Meursault – not that I gave it a second look; drinking fat, expensive whites like this to me is like drinking melted butter – the wine list at The Lady O is a real credit to the place. Presented in hard back, it remains approachable, offers great value and variety, interesting Old World and niche among New, and specifically a punchy, more than palatable Cotes du Rhone for about £26. Took care of an uncalled for, extra glass with my short-change cheese too.

Try as it might, The Lady Ottoline is one of those places, one would guess, that will never be seen by anyone who ever knew it before as anything other than the King’s Arms. Which is not to say that it isn’t a mostly successful shot at boozer re-birth. The shop-fit stinks of quality craftsmanship, the cooking is cracking on this low-key evidence and its wine list is a winner. The beer was lame, however, which will need addressing should it ever aspire to neighbourhood status AND that as a destination dining room.  Over and above that, though, the wait staff – of whom I’d been primed to expect good things – will need to apply themselves a sight better to their theme than they did tonight before their rating as the latter is elevated beyond being just a decent alternative.

Bottoms up, Fingers. You’re golden, man. x

Photos courtesy of The Lady herself.

Ruination IPA Day – Gjelina, Venice, CA.

Abbot Kinney Blvd. is a thoroughfare, man. Even accounting for the extent to which I’m inordinately impressed by almost everything out here, one could comfortably spend a whole day walking up and down it, inhaling its relaxed, retail/residential vibe, trying and failing to put into words precisely what it is that makes it feel so fucking cool to me. It represents a lifestyle, I guess. One to which there appears very little urgency but that, at the same time, inspires you to get busy living. Creating. And realising some goals. I’d love to feel as passionately about my high street.

Gjelina is at the corner with Milwood Avenue. Anthracite and angular on the outside, inside it’s utilitarian but with texture, functional but with lots of flourishes. It’s Monday and it’s humming. I’d been told to expect indifference from the hostesses but they were fine. Brisk but cordial, they advised us a wait of up to 30 minutes was likely before space would become available, and that it’d be at one of two communal tables that splay from the room’s island bar. As it turned out we were seated in barely 10, and at our own, but not before being furnished with drinks – a Bordeaux blend from Washington State’s Gilbert Cellars, and a Stone Brewing Co. Ruination IPA.

The menu’s a knockout. An object lesson in sourcing, there was loads about the largely vegetarian card to distract even the most rapacious carnivore. I’m an open-minded mutha, but the irregularity with which I eat out these days ( in the UK, anyway…) means that, given the option, I’ll more often than not regress to red meat. Such an obviously considered, cosmopolitan card as this though, is a real credit to the farmer’s market sensibilities of its creators. I could have pinned the tail on the donkey and been as unreservedly pleased with whatever I wound up with. Our approach was more measured than that of course, and the fact that what I ultimately wound up with was Meatballs, and then pizza with salami, is entirely incidental. K and I also shared a Tuscan Kale salad with shaved fennel, radish and ricotta, and the Squash Blossom pizza; a Cherry Tomato, Zucchini, Burrata and Parmesan number. I left thinking if only there were more high-end, accessibly priced places that could so effortlessly make green stuff look good, the healthier, more balanced diet I’d have, and the happier I’d be about the apparent need to pour pint after pint of IPA down after it.

This being LA, and Venice’s most boutique boulevard, the crowd at Gjelina was young and typically hip but with mature, well-to-do glimpses that continued to speak volumes as to its far-reaching appeal. And we met a vampire there. A charming Frenchman called Sebastien who played one on a TV show, anyway. Far from raving about a blue Niman Ranch, Flat Iron steak he’d just savaged, however, he was more batty about the Butterscotch Pot de Creme with salted caramel. Proof (in the pudding, of all places) that even bloodsuckers can bite down on something besides flesh and still feel the benefits.

Just the best night, this. I heart LA, and this one’s for you, Malibu xxxxx

Piss & Googlies: Nelson – Birmingham, England, 27th/28th August 2011

“Nelson (Cricket) – The name, applied to team or individual scores of 111 or multiples thereof”.

Yes, it’s difficult, isn’t it, once we’re all grows up, to keep dates for what ought to be a regular ‘coming together’ of family? Life gets in the way. Prior engagements, responsibilities…I get it. I don’t have them, but I get it. What you need are some tenuous grounds – grounds too tenuous for anyone to object – to get a little crazy. A healthy period of notice is obviously useful, as is a Bank, or Labor Day Holiday; a crash mat onto which those with dependents can fall in the aftermath, either to have their hair stroked or to lick their wounds, to rest and rehydrate before resigning themselves to a host of pre-arranged, compensatory domestic chores. Foundation for such opportunity can be a little ‘chicken and egg’, of course, and the very reason why the brothers and I celebrating our Centenary (our cumulative 100th birthday) over a hot and sunny weekend next-the-sea a few years back was a masterstroke. It created a precedent. A table around which to conspire. Back in February, at Stow on the Wold’s Eagle & Child, the penny dropped. For the six months between May and November this year, we’d be 111. Hello Nelson, goodbye short-term memory.

The domestic TwentyTwenty finals day at Edgbaston provided the setting for Day1. Try as it might, while rain interrupted the cricket, it couldn’t stop play. An initial and misguided circumnavigation of the ground took in frogs, a chicken deep in conversation with a couple of rabbits, and a barely-released, blinking Beirut hostage with a tongue like a salamander. Six or seven plastic pots of black and amber piss were despatched through the covers before, having sat through two finely balanced semis and one mascot steeplechase, we threw over the final in favour of a change of scene. By now the all male cheerleader troupe fannying about on a nearby podium were starting to sour the taste of an otherwise sensational picnic, (among which, incidentally, the sweet stuffed bell peppers were the tits) and we were beginning to feel quite self-aware about the amount of exposure Sky television’s cameras had given us already.

Getting ourselves hence to a haughty Hotel du Vin we figured, in light of the occasion and the surroundings, that cocktails were in order. Sceptical one of two mojitos mightn’t have arrived sans rum, and mindful Big Bentz was mincing too much around his margarita, we yammed what was left of the laid-on salty snacks and went to Bacchus.

Buried in the vaults of the Burlington Hotel, Bacchus is a Nicholson joint and duly juxtaposes a reasonable beer selection with an atrocious carpet. Always a minor mystery to me why some pub operators will undermine the overall aesthetic of their often passable premises by laying any old shit on the floor. Never really got any further toward figuring out why, either, beyond the assumption garish colours and swirly patterns are low maintenance and disguise sick better than seagrass.

To Jamie’s Italian. First go at one of these and, I must say, it was pretty good. A beautifully appointed, rustic yet modern space serving very good, very keenly priced food. Delivered somewhat nonchalantly. Someone had obviously told our girl she was good at this, anyway, and she had believed them. She read us the day’s Specials in much the same way she might leave her number as part of an answerphone message. Didn’t hear a word. The food was really tasty though, as I say. I had a Buffalo Ricotta Ravioli (£7.25) to start, and a Tuscan Boar Sausage (£11.45) on lentils to follow. The lads called Mushroom Fritti (£3.95), Prawn linguine (£12.50) and a Burger Italiano (£11.25). All perfectly portioned save for the burger, the price of which should have included fries, but, all in, a really decent diffusion concept.

The following day can be catalogued more generally under ‘Misc.- Tear Up’. Lining our stomachs with a predictably sub-standard, over-priced and error-strewn breakfast  at Warwick’s Lazy Cow (we thought we’d give them a second crack of the whip. Doubt they’ll get a third…) by 12.30am we’d sought the more-than relative sanctuary of Stratford’s Church Street Townhouse. This place knows service even better than it knows how to sell you things. Pooh-poohing a more than reasonable offer of Bloody Marys in favour of a string of pints and steel buckets full of brilliantly dirty bar food, we capitalised on the charitable suggestion we leave our tab open for our inevitable return, and decamped to the louche upstairs of some big screen gaff to watch Man Utd rape Arsenal by 8 pots to 2. Bentz’ celebratory shuffle after ‘PARK!’ made it six or seven was an undoubted highpoint.

Trousering a Purity Gold, among other things, in the so-so One Elm, we returned to our open check and live piano at the Townhouse. Piri-Piri prawns, an edge-beckoning, pupil-dilating Muscadet, and a sing-a-long-a ‘Sweet Caroline’ provided the spirited setting for some healthy, inebriated, family-orientated chat. The kind that boys sometimes need beers to broach. A brief, ‘we okay?’ word in each other’s ear before congregating back at the coal face of a carve-up which, even if we do say so ourselves, and in spite of the white threatening temporarily to derail us (well, me), was paced to pleasantly-pissed perfection over its 11hour duration. 

Less a critique of the various venues visited, then, than an endorsement of the importance of weekends like this, spent in this environment. Family is and always will be fundamental to me. To get periodically FUBAR in their company, if that’s your wont – and it is indisputably ours – helps restore balance and banter where day-to-day shit and a circumstantial shortage of regular reco’s might threaten to muddy the waters. We had a fucking great time. None of which scratches the surface of the 5 point, chauffeured pub crawl a break-away faction of us failed to resist come that aforementioned, supposedly arse-ache alleviating Monday. No shame, some of us. No shame. No shame, no gain…

Gone Wood – The Brownswood, Green Lanes, N4

As a retrospective of mine and the brothers’ cumulative 111th birthday tear up last weekend continued to simmer itself into something resembling structure, the Crow and I met for beers at The Brownswood. A large, looming bastard of a building overlooking some bad tempered crossroads and a stone’s throw from one of the moodiest housing estates sinceGilley Law, The Brownswood is the latest from the brains behind Stoke Newington’s Jolly Butchers and Rose & Crown.

Open barely a month, for all the latitude that affords it, The Brownswood hasn’t quite got ‘it’.  The aesthetic approach is right on, the execution not so much. Sure, it needs some wearing in, but for a start I’d have stained those downstairs table tops darker or else chosen different ones. I’d also have laid wooden flooring where the slate tiles that pave the way to the barren beer ‘garden’ lend the air of a farmhouse kitchen extension. And Christ only knows I’m not an interior designer, but perhaps I’d also have painted the ceilings to try to close in a space that, on the ground and first floor, feels hollow. Not at all sure about the ornamental star constellation on an upstairs wall, either…

But that’s not to say it’s an uncomfortable environment. It’s truly cavernous, so to be too critical of their failure to fill it already would be harsh. The bar presentation is smartly uniform. The people working it, while we’re there, are enthusiastic and helpful. And what they call their 1st Floor Lounge actually feels quite established. It benefits from an exposed brick wall, better furniture, nice light fixtures, and an open fireplace, in front of which there’s a long, comfy looking sofa that, for once, doesn’t a) waste space, and b) look like it’s been abandoned there.

If you enjoy the product selection at the Jolly Butchers you’ll feel let down here. Doubtless attributable to the terms of tie, and though you might argue that of the more generic cask and bottled booze out there they’ve chosen reasonably well, it’s still just that. Generic. And, although both the Redemption Pale Ale ( as directional as it got, it quite naturally ran out ) and St Austell Tribute were tip-top, drinking out of a jug makes me feel like an old fucker.

The food we opted for was a relative triumph. To get this many biscuits with cheese is practically unheard of and, I won’t lie, along with them playing Ryan Adams, made the place up a lot of ground. The cheeses themselves weren’t sexy but had teeth and, for £7.95, there were plenty on the board. On another was a dead decent antipasti comprising meaty florets of Parma ham, salami, chorizo, warm bread and olives (£9.95). The very deliberately narrow menu otherwise offers Burgers (which looked pretty good), sausage and mash, Fish and Chips, and a Risotto which the table next to us politely returned in exchange for a pudding on the House.

Glitches like this they’ll probably iron out over time. And at the risk of sounding quite contrary, given its early days and all, so will their garden grow. But you’ll have to go along – and I wouldn’t discourage you- to begin to appreciate what I mean when I say The Brownswood hasn’t quite got ‘it’. It has something. Somethings, even. Biscuits, music, manners. But not ‘it’. Not yet, anyway.

Peace out, the Crow. Love you, boss x

Photos courtesy of our hosts. Except the one of Cheese. I took that.

York (Disg-)Races – The House of the Trembling Madness, Pivni and others, York

Despite having arguably the worst name of any hostelry featured by the Hymnal – a name which smacks of an Edgar Allan Poe-m that was later adapted and made into a movie starring Vincent Price – York’s The House of the Trembling Madness is, in the best possible sense, a right hole in the wall. Set toward the Minster end of the city’s Stonegate and serving as a sort of Tap for the specialist bottled beer business it resides above, THotTM offers a range of craft beer from keg and one from cask, as well, as I say, as a cross-section of the many available from The Bottle below. From Brooklyn to Thornbridge, the concept is not dissimilar in principle to a number already covered here, only delivered on a smaller scale and with a degree more taste afforded mainly by the character cottage it’s been crowbarred into the eaves of. It serves predominantly small plates of delicious smelling food and, on the strength of two visits, appears not to be too widely known about. Little surprise, I guess, since you really need to be looking for it to find it. 

Just around the corner is The Guy Fawkes, a hotel and bar with a rep for real ale. This, apparently, was the wrong day to catch it on, not least because the subdued, candlelit vibe inside did not become the light of a warm day. But also because half the hand pumps were turned around and what was left was about as inspiring as the prospect of the real cider that completed the line-up. We turned about, reticent to judge it on this appearance, and resolving to return in Winter.

Just off The Shambles, Pivni is parent to London’s Euston Tap. Occupying more practical, not so novel premises and with less precarious means to access the upstairs, the set-up here is more of the smart-arsed same; a lot of German beers on the bottled list, Brighton and Brew Dog well represented on draft. A fragrant, not massively enjoyable elderflower infusion from Dark Star was followed hard by a few Anchor Porters and a Brooklyn Brown Ale. The Fox, having so far eschewed most things that’d have been of interest to the beer boffin, got tucked into some Camden Pale Ale and a couple of Punk IPA’s. I see they’ve reigned in the abv. of the keg version to correspond with the cask. Still, couldn’t prevent my partner in piss later confessing to the cumulative effects of all this and the Blue Moon we’d cyphened at Oscar’s in between. ‘Why, that stuff was strong…’, he said. There were no drunk dials this time though, and no other mishaps, which represents progress.

We wound up at Oscar’s for food, which was pretty forgettable in terms of both that and the serving of. The Malbec I’d been the ringleader in procuring was almost certainly surplus to requirements – we left about a third of it – although that, given the extent to which one’s ‘requirements’ had been satisfied the day before, is probably a moot point to be making in the mist/midst of yet another unnecessary skinful. We’re old friends though, The Fox and I, there’s invariably stuff to talk about that goes better with booze and, just as a few days earlier and in a fit of pre-gig pique I’d spaffed a oner on some new threads at the Folk sale, this shit’s never about whether or not you need it, is it?

Pictures papped and pilfered from http://www.travelswithbeer.com/2011/02/28/pivni-york/  (although the same pics show up accredited to someone else) and flickr.

Neither The Bottle nor The House of the Trembling Madness seem to have official homepages. Which is a shame.

Double Euphoria – The Devonshire Arms, Chiswick

If I was good at one thing as a restaurant manager it was at dealing with complaints. Not that we had many. Although if ever we did the resolving of them was, if I may say, very often poetry. Most of all you’ve to listen. Don’t argue. Appear to understand even though you might not agree, and motion to report back or deal personally (and privately, of course) according to if the issue relates to food or service. Be fallible, yes, but not culpable. Apologise once and say it like you mean it, regardless of whether or not you do. Solve the problem then, and only then, take a moment to consider the necessary means of redress. If you deem any appropriate, that is. Measure the vehemence of your customer’s beef with the seriousness of indiscretion. Are they a twat or did you actually screw up? There’s often decent scope here to embarrass an over-egger with a concession so generous, and satisfying for you, it’ll have them scrambling to recall quite what they were getting their knickers in a twist over in the first place. With any luck they’ll not show their face again. Genuine, constructive criticism, I found, was best countered with a small, subtle gesture . Exponents will refute that they’re doing it for discount but you should scratch off their cappuccinos anyway. They’ll depart happy as sand boys, but not before depositing at least their value in tips.

The lady on the table next to us at The Devonshire Arms had a problem. I was trying not to be too distracted by it but I have a radar that’s sensitive to these situations and which tunes in pretty much automatically. Her tone was knowing and horribly condescending. She was way too comfortable with herself not to have done this before. Any sense of that and you can safely assume, I think, not only that the point’s being exaggerated but that you’re dealing with somebody whose approach to eating out is all wrong. With this in mind, the nice, sensitive duty manager gave way more ground than I would have, his polite submissiveness only serving to fan the old girl’s flames. Be wary of people who allude to your perceived profile; no one will be more keenly aware of what that is than you. Anyone that feels a need to state they’re ‘in the trade’, may be roundly, if not rudely, rebuffed. Idiots. The main reason I have to doubt there was too much in what this lady had to say, though, – and her issue seemed to revolve around over-salted potatoes –  is that my food, indeed my evening there, was bloody great.

Instantly, outwardly recognisable as a sister operation to Islington’s Draper’s Arms, the Devonshire’s location is less refined than I’d imagined. It stands among humbler residences than its established sibling, and in close proximity to the A4 which, Lord knows, is not Upper Street. It cuts a dash in its own right mind you. It’s traditional and tastefully done out in dark olive and solid wood. The lighting is low, too low if anything – the range of bar product wasn’t easily discernible once the sun had gone down – but the place feels warm. And those two easy chairs in the front room will be highly coveted once the weather turns and the fires are lit.

The menu is varied and is set to change regularly. To start with we had Red Onion and Goat’s Cheese Tart (£5.50 – light, excellent) and Scallops with Shaved Fennel and Piccalilli (£8.50). Never had Scallops with piccalilli before. Won’t be the last time I do, either. For mains we opted boldly for Sunday’s sharing centrepiece – a whole Roast Chicken, roast potatoes and seasonal veg. At £34 this obviously represented better value for 3 than for 2, but even at £17 a head we, unlike some, had no complaints. There was a ton of meat on this thing, the stuffing came in for special praise from my companion, and it looked fantastic when it landed. See?

Despite not needing anything else, I’d promised myself at least three courses. We decided to split both a cheese – a balance of three with biscuits and homemade chutney, £8 – and a dessert. Chocolate Fondant, Griottine (?) Cherries and vanilla ice-cream was perfect. 

Drinks-wise we mixed grape and grain, naturally, beginning with a beer from Sambrook’s, followed that with a bottle of good value French (Pinot Noir £25), and rounded things off with a carafe of a gutsy Cotes du Rhone (£14.70).

If I was to pick at anything it’d be the menu presentation. My friend Liz is way smarter than I am, and dines out more extensively, but had more questions than I, as hypothetical operator, would want to raise via my wording of certain dishes. She’s American so had no qualms about asking. And, sure, I know what ‘girolles’ and ‘rillettes’ are, but when the offer is as straight-forward, albeit as stylish, as this essentially is, I’m just not sure people here don’t prefer plainer English. Besides that, and the need for greater confidence on the part of the staff in what they’re doing, it was belting. That’ll come though, and quickly. Because what they’re doing is really good.

Liz. Pleasure. Thankyou.

Photos not hashed on one’s iPhone courtesy of The Devonshire.