North London Pub of the Year Ballot: My Vote

As I mentioned in my birthday post (mission accomplished!), voting is now open in the CAMRA North London branch for North London Pub of the Year. I visited all six of the nominees (plus a few bonus pubs) in a one-day whirlwind pub crawl, and I have decided how I am going to vote.

I fully realize that I can't possibly assess the true character of a pub in a single visit, particularly when I visited some in that sleepy period shortly after opening and others in the full swing of a busy Saturday night. I also did not eat in any of these pubs, which might disadvantage those that emphasize food. And, of course, what I want from my pub may not be the same thing you want from your pub. But life ain't fair, so save your complaints and cast your own vote!

So here they are, ranked in order. I will say that the top two were very difficult to separate, with the final ranking decided on location and my personal preferences in comfort and decor:

1. The Southampton Arms

What an absolute gem. The Southampton Arms, tucked away in a Highgate Road storefront in Kentish Town, combines an outstanding selection of English craft ales and ciders -- twelve handpumps for beer and six for cider -- with the rustic, lived-in comfort of the best English pubs. The server knew the characteristics of the beers he was pouring and was able to give an intelligent, nuanced recommendation. If this place were any closer to home, I would happily kick back in the church pew beside the open fire every day, from the minute they opened until they chucked me out at closing time. My selection for North London Pub of the Year.

The Southampton Arms gets my vote for North London Pub of the Year!

2. The Jolly Butchers

The Jolly Butchers would be perfectly at home if someone plucked it from the busy streets of Stoke Newington and plopped it back down in Santa Monica, somewhere between The Library Alehouse and Father's Office. This is more beer bar than pub -- which is not a bad thing -- with a young and vibrant crowd filling the clean, modern interior with a definite buzz. The selection of English craft brews is good, and The Jolly Butchers boasts a better selection of international beers than The Southampton Arms. The delicious Belgian Mort Subite Kriek and Sierra Nevada Pale Ale, among others, were on draught, and a broad range of international beers (including Brooklyn Brewery and Flying Dog) is available in bottles. (Might there be a Stone or Russian River or Lagunitas beer pouring here in the near future? We California expats can only hope.) The servers knew their beers and seemed genuinely excited about them. The Jolly Butchers was edged out of my top spot only by The Southampton Arms's inviting, relaxed atmosphere and its Kentish Town location, but on a different day I might well have made a different decision.

The Jolly Butchers, a solid second.

3. North Nineteen

Wrapped inside a bland exterior in a charmless Upper Holloway neighborhood is North Nineteen, the sort of cosy family pub and restaurant that deserves to be the center of community life. The interior is newly refurbished and it makes no effort to simulate period charm -- it is unpretentious, clean and modern. The front bar has a large open fireplace and a flat screen TV for the friendly local Arsenal supporters, and a small dining room off to the side. The back bar (go through the gents) has darts and another fireplace.  Nine handpumps, three in front and six in back, and a good selection of whiskies as well. The service was notably amiable and efficient. Were I not on a mission of my own, I would have been content to sit in the bar and watch football all afternoon.

The back bar at North Nineteen, empty on a Saturday afternoon, no doubt awaiting the punters' return from the Arsenal match at the Emirates.

4. The Charles Lamb

The Charles Lamb is exceptional in two ways: it is exceptionally charming, and it is exceptionally small. The place is all white and pale green with simple, clean lines, and it has a slightly feminine air about it. This is a pleasant change from the overtly masculine, dark-and-dingy decor of many neighborhood pubs (an aesthetic epitomized by the fading glory of the Lamb's endangered neighbor, The Wenlock Arms). But its diminutive size is an inconvenience.  We were able to find seats after only a short wait at the bar on our late Saturday evening visit, but I have been to the Lamb on a Saturday afternoon and had difficulty getting through door for the crowd. The Lamb has only three handpumps (I doubt there is space for any more).

Charming, but too small.

5. The Duke of Wellington

There seems to be some sort of magical effect in operation at The Duke of Wellington: Whenever a seat is opened up, whether at a table or at the bar, it is instantly filled, and yet one never can tell from whence the people come -- the place never seems to be crowded, and no one ever seems to be waiting for a chair. It's almost as if the punters are a liquid, flowing in at the same rate as they flow out, always finding their own level.

That said, I found The Duke of Wellington to be pleasant but entirely unexceptional. The interior decor is minimalist to the point of nonexistence; the exterior is unremarkable, and there is nothing to recommend a visit to its Dalston location.

The Duke of Wellington: Not a serious contender.

6. Three Compasses

I took an instand dislike to Three Compasses, and I'm not sure why. It might have been the toothless drunk at the bar who decided for unknown reasons that I was the perfect audience for his harangue about the poor service he was receiving, or perhaps it was the surly server who promptly demonstrated that his complaints were justified. The front bar was fine but unexceptional; I did not like the cavern-like back bar, which seemed a bit of a Chucky Cheese-style game room for obnoxious groups of beer drinking teens and 20-somethings. The selection of cask ales was decent, particularly if you are a fan of Redemption Brewing, and the Redemption Pale Ale I had was fine. But I did not linger over it, and I will not return for another.

Last place: Three Compasses

Of Mincemeat, Chanukah Lights and Eggwhat?

You know, we’re trying to fit in here in the U.K. We say “pram” instead of “stroller,” “zed” instead of “zee,” and “whilst” instead of “while.” We look right instead of left when crossing the street, and always use the plural for collective nouns.  No big deal. We’re not ugly Americans.

But the Brits are not making it easy on us.  Even at Christmas.

First thing, wherever you go during the Christmas season, someone is shoving a little mince pie at you.  Shopping malls, grocery stores, even business meetings—they are irritatingly ubiquitous. I don’t know even how you’re supposed to eat these things.  They’re actual little pies, in miniature tin pie plates.  How are you supposed to eat that? I can’t even get one out of pie plate without destroying it.  And if I did get it out of the pie plate, then what? Shove the whole thing in my mouth? I’d choke. Take a single bite? I’d end up with crust crumbs all over me and mincemeat on my nose. The little bastards should come with an instruction manual. Or at least a spork.

Oh, and, in case you were wondering, there’s no actual meat in them. Which, I must say, comes as a bit of a surprise when you eat one.  After all, Brits eat meat pies like Americans eat hot dogs, and what we call ground beef, they call minced.  So you figure a mincemeat pie is going to have some friggin’ minced meat. Instead, you bite into one and you get a mouthful sugary, spicey, fruity, squishy goop.  It’s enough to make you retch.

Second thing, all the Christmas lights over here are blue. Yes, blue. When people started putting blue lights on their houses last week, we assumed we had moved into a Jewish neighborhood  that was really excited about Chanukah. But no, they were Christmas lights. Whoever heard of blue Christmas lights? What is that supposed to symbolize?  Christianity is about blood.  Christmas lights are supposed to be red.

The worst thing, though, is the eggnog—or, lack thereof.

Immediately after we finished our belated Thanksgiving dinner, Heidi happily trotted down to Waitrose to pick up the Christmas season’s first carton of eggnog. We love eggnog. We only buy the expensive stuff, like Broguiere’s in the old-fashioned glass milk bottles from Bristol Farms. Heidi likes it in a red wine glass with a bit of Armagnac and a hint of nutmeg; I like it in an old fashioned glass with so much dark spiced rum that it begins to curdle.  Stefan drinks it straight from the bottle, a quart at a time.

So there’s Heidi at Waitrose and she can’t find eggnog anywhere. No Broguiere’s. No Alta Dena. Not even that crappy Borden’s stuff that comes in a can, like it’s meant to be stored in a fallout shelter and enjoyed during a nuclear winter. Nothing.

So she asks one of the helpful Waitrose employees, Where is the eggnog?

The guy replies, Egg what?

Egg what? Egg WHAT? Are you daft, Mr. Waitrose person? Rumour has it (notice the conformist “u”) you people invented this stuff. And now you don’t even know what it is? What kind of deprived backward culture has this become? I realize you had rationing in this country for nine years after World War II while America was living a post-war economic boom, but honestly, do you all of you outside of the inbred upper classes have to live like Okie grandmothers from the Dust Bowl era?

So  Heidi kindly describes for the (presumably mentally challenged) man exactly what eggnog is— Eggs. Sugar. Cream. You know, eggnog.

Oh, he says distastefully. That sounds rather indulgent.

Just like that. With the dul in audible italics.

Of course it’s indulgent, you moron! It’s eggnog!!

So, yeah. Christmas in the U.K. Mince pie. Blue lights. No friggin' eggnog. It’s just not the same.

The Thanksgiving That Is Not, 2010

It is a cold, beautiful day in London. Tomorrow will be colder; on Saturday, perhaps, even snow.  The leaves that enfolded our flat in green six weeks ago have turned burnt orange and fire red and withered and fallen away.  There is frost on the garden.  Winter is coming early.

The cold reminds me of two of my favorite Thanksgivings.  Stefan’s first, in New York, the city closed down by a surprise snow storm and the Macy’s Parade.  Another spent in an A-frame cabin at Lake Arrowhead, when Stefan and Lucinda were wee small things; just the four of us and the forest and three bags full of groceries picked up along the way.

I had much to be thankful for on each of those days, including that I did not know on either that,  within a year, everything would change, profoundly and permanently, for better and for worse.

On our first Thanksgiving in London , this Thanksgiving-that-is-not, I walk to work along a path lined with stately English oak trees, laid between the gardens of red brick Edwardian mansions. I could not have imagined walking this path last Thanksgiving, during my after-dinner stroll along balmy Manhattan Beach.  I now have a new son, a new home, a new city; two grown children who, in entirely different ways, have made giant strides into adulthood over the past year, and whom I could not love or gloat on more; a marriage that is stronger now than the day we took our vows.  I have much to be thankful for.

But I also feel the losses more keenly today, and I wonder what the next year might bring.  This is the tenth Thanksgiving without my mother. Emma will not be barking for scraps under the table this year.  Stefan and Lucinda and Jazz – and nearly everyone and everything that constituted our daily lives for years – all 6000 miles away.  Heidi’s father faces heart surgery next week.  My father, who once told me he expected to live to 84, will turn 82 before next Thanksgiving.

As I wait for the bus, watching my breath like time condense in the cold moment then vanish, I feel keenly that every Thanksgiving past means one fewer remains.

It is now 4:26 p.m. local time.  I am at work and I receive an email from Heidi that she found and bought a fresh turkey at Waitrose.  We won’t be eating it today.  I think we’re having fish for dinner.

Remembrance Day

A blustery drizzly day, altogether more fitting for rememberance than a Memorial Day barbecue. Here, where silent contemplation replaces a burger and a beer.  At the 11^th hour on the 11^th day of the 11^th month. The ones lined up, like the boys marching off to die in the mud for King and Country.  For no reason at all.

And then the platinum hair in countermotion on the platform and before I think, I think, Lucinda?

I feel like I look ridiculous.  I feel like a child wearing my father’s pants.