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

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.

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.

Bring the lights down – The Barnsbury, N1

It must have been, oh, about five years ago. CrowsFeet, his missus and I had contorted ourselves into a corner of the Charles Lamb and were contemplating food from a tight menu that, tellingly, had sold through on its stand-out dish. The lady had just joined us from work, I think, and it was all a bit hectic. We weren’t feeling it so we left.

Diverting along Liverpool Road, we were thinking Drapers, maybe, but came to The Barnsbury first. They were smashed out and, on enquiring tentatively as whether they had room for three, we were shown to the only available table, a round, squeezed just inside the door. It was about as comfortable a fit as we’d relinquished at the Lamb but, having been made feel very much as though they’d prefer it if we stayed, and despite the warning that food would most likely be a while, we hunkered the hell in. Food was a while. When it did come though, in line with how popular the place appeared, it was really decent. I had a confit duck leg with cassoulet, as I remember, and we had a good night.

Fast forward to last evening and the cut of the Barnsbury’s jib is decidedly different. They’re using the door on the opposite side as the main entrance now, creating a more natural angle from which to channel punters in toward the bar. The other notable difference is that, relatively speaking, there’s no one here. The unwelcoming glare of blinding light from those customised, upturned-glass chandeliers may have something do with that. There’s no attempt here to generate anything approaching an ambience despite, as I say, the thoughtful, quirky fittings. It feels very much as though they’ve just called time, even though it’s still only 10pm. They don’t just carry any old thing in the way of product here either. I mean, it’s not the most cutting-edge concept, but there’s great condition Brew Dog on draft, one or two unpredictable guest ales, stuff a beer snob wouldn’t sniff at by the bottle, and an attractive display of premium, top shelf spirits. They just don’t seem given to selling any of it up or to keeping people there once they have them in. The guys behind the bar would appear capable, but also bored, distracted, and not to give a rat’s arse, particularly, about the quality of customer experience. Weird.

I haven’t looked into it but if I was to venture a guess as to whether the Barnsbury’s undergone a change of administration since last we were there, I’d have to go with ‘yes’. Last night Liverpool Road felt like a village high street that’s recently been by-passed, its pub like a local that’s presided over by someone who’s in it just for giggles and spends most of his or her time on the golf course. A few tweaks and it could be canny. Just now it’s about good enough for a swift one.

Hackney Ding Dong – Duke of Wellington, The Talbot, The Royal Oak

I started writing this thing, as much as anything, because I had too much time on my hands. Too much time and no money which, where opportunities to tear one off were two-a-penny, meant also that it was difficult to maximise on every site visit or put food-led pubs properly through their paces. These days I have a job. Not a particularly serious job, but a job. Hence, although I still have no money, I have increasingly few windows to get out into the field, and even less then to catalogue just how smashed or sick I subsequently get. Where this is pertinent in Hymnal terms is in regard to the assertion in the Ethos page here that boozers can stand up on the strength of a single redeeming feature. While I absolutely maintain that to be true, I’d also have had to be blind, now pastime is at a premium, not to notice how infrequently, from the point of view of venue, product and service – to name but three of the criteria by which one would invariably rate somewhere – a place ticks more than a couple of boxes. All of a sudden I’m concerned not only that the general public are way too tolerant of iffy standards, but that altered perspective has, God forbid, raised my own expectations of how far my resources need go.

If last Saturday’s crawl around Dalston and Hackney proved one thing it’s that it’s miles easier to look cool than it is to look discerning. Imagine Balls Pond Road, if you will, to be a literal pool of test(es) personnel, and you should find yourself a step closer to figuring out how certain pubs in the area succeed, by lackadaisically lollygagging around their theme, in taking the piss out of their punters on a day-to-day basis. Not that the one venue we visited on that specific thoroughfare was necessarily guilty here, but if I hadn’t already known Bethnal Green’s Mason & Taylor sprang from its midst, I’d never have put The Duke of Wellington in the same ball park. They’re two different models, of course, which will go some way to accounting for that, but there wasn’t anything like the pervasive professionalism here as greeted me at its craft beer-orientated off-shoot. And I’ll grant you there’s very often an air, when someone opens somewhere new, of a fresh, more ‘at it’ attitude to appearances, to creating an impression, as well as a determination to do right this time what perhaps they did wrong the last. Still, they shouldn’t need me to tell them their bottled stuff’s going to get warm if they don’t pull the fridge door to.

Given how fucking fashionable this part of town is, too, I’m often surprised its locals haven’t graduated from or, in the spirit of the now, revolted against the whole mismatched furniture, Bloody Mary, comfy sofas, Sunday papers thing. (Not that there’s anything wrong with it, but one should incorporate these things consciously, not just because one has had a look around and ascertained that’s what everybody does). The Scolt Head, on an apex of residential roads in delightful De Beauvoir Town (as ever, I’m clueless as to where this stops and Dalston starts or whether if you’re in one you’re in the other..) is just an exponent. A tall, tatty building with a sprawling interior, it rather lacks a soul. This being a charge usually levelled at pubs that don’t play music, I’m here to contend pubs that do can be just as culpable. Ones that also televise live sports and allow the noise from each to come together and then dissipate high above confused chatter about precisely what feel, if any, this pub is trying for.  Ones that are too big and have very little sense of self. My pint of the reduxed Truman brewery’s Summer Runner was served in a glass emblazoned with Greene King IPA. Enough said.

The Talbot, on Mortimer Road, with its exposed brick and fairy lights, does its level best to mask what’s a pretty unattractive building in a not terribly appealing spot. Here, leather Chesterfield chairs butt heads with dog-eared, not-quite-design-classics underneath a menu which, though outwardly appealing, I just wouldn’t want want to stick around to eat from. Why? My pint of Landlord was moody and credible alternatives were at a real premium. Which is kind of my beef. Just to look sharp ain’t enough. You’ve got to back it up. Humouring this sort of shit in places that think more (though not for very long) about appearance than good bar product creates a breeding ground for like undesirables. Vote with your Vans.

By the time we’d consumed cut-price pizza at Stingray and landed at The Royal Oak on Columbia Road, I was proper screwing. Packed and shit. Not unlike its sister, Spurstowe, who either got me on a good day or vice versa when I wrote this. Admittedly by this point there was the sense very much we were now drinking for the sake of it. Two or three bottles taken Off Broadway had eradicated the after-taste of ‘dicky’ Tim Taylor but also served to provide context to the unforgivably flat Meantime Pale Ale on cask here. It was awful, on the turn, and with the place awash with laughing painted faces (true), I left feeling like someone might have spiked me with Absinthe.

What did I start by saying? Oh, yeah; I don’t have time for this. Maybe I’m getting old but I need more substance, more genuine thought and less ‘imagination’ than perhaps these operators seem prepared to invest. And so should the kids spilling out on to their pavements, if nothing else because their permissiveness of bad product is just exacerbating the situation. In this part of town, anyway. And maybe that’s it. Maybe they can or will not be converted and we chose poorly when opting to freestyle from a more bankable, pre-determined path.  I’d rather not believe that but, hey, it’s already 2.30pm on Sunday. My Sunday. At least I know where not to go when next the chance arises.

Safe.

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.

Leather Gain – The Craft Beer Co., EC1

With so many beer industry Herberts descending on EC1′s newly opened Craft Beer Co. this week, I’ll warrant mine won’t be the only related write-up you’ll pass over in the coming days. It’s likely to be the least formulaic, though. It’ll contain the least sensory appraisal of the place’s product range, and it’ll refrain from eulogising too excitedly about just how much there is to choose from. What it will do, principally, is endorse its inception.

I’ve been astonished by the degree of negativity emanating from within the industry about this enterprise. From the first moment its opening was mooted I’ve fielded shit about its location, about the concept and who’s behind it, about its execution (before it’s even been executed), about its proposed opening times and about who will use it. What do you care how they’re putting it together or how much it’s costing ? It isn’t your risk. And it’s all a bit after the Lord Mayor’s Show to tell me, “Yeah, I could have got that site ages ago…”, because you didn’t, did you? For whatever reason you thought better of it. So don’t now will the proactive individual that did believe it worth a punt to fail, and just because if it were to succeed you might feel a prick for having turned the opportunity down. Get behind it. Acknowledge the value of some healthy competition, of another outlet, another option. Have a sense of community. And have some class. If you come to opening night, do so in support, not to publicly bad-mouth an operation that isn’t, in effect, a million miles away from your own. It comes over like sour grapes. And like you’re scared or something.

The Craft Beer Co. have a good pub here. It’s not a great pub, but it’s a good one. It offers tremendous variety. It sails over my head in regard to its specialist scale, but the numerous styles and their origins are comprehensively and smartly documented via nicely produced, bound beer lists. The measures in which certain bottles are available also means that for the price of a bottle of decent wine, you can come back and enjoy 75cl of the good stuff in much the same way. Which is a concept I like, not least since it makes a feature of/creates a bit of theatre around what they’re doing. The staff are being well drilled too. Those working the pre-launch evening (on which we were so graciously entertained) showed an aptitude that suggested it wouldn’t be long before you could pretty much ask them anything along their theme. The premises are pleasant, albeit they’re way too brightly lit. The cosmetic improvements, too (the colourfully upholstered high bench seating and the branded wallpaper) are at odds with features of the building (the showpiece mirrored ceiling, the ornate cornicing over the back bar) that a more successful overhaul would have worked more sympathetically with. This is basically a modern concept in an old building and it’s not a comfortable fit. The vibe isn’t a relaxed one.

Still, I’m going to use it. It sells things that I like and it represents one more reputable place to go. If you’re into beer, and these guys are really into beer, you should do the same. Then, by all means, tell me you don’t like it. But I’m firmly in its corner. If only to counter those mean-spirited, all-knowing arseholes who aren’t.

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)

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.