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.

Three Pub Update

We've had the chance to revisit some of our local pubs to reconsider our initial impressions.  Here are some updates:

The Old Bull & Bush: Heidi, Jack and I returned to The Old Bull & Bush for dinner tonight (Nov. 26).  The results were mixed. We liked the ambiance of the dining room: the black wooden tables were well spaced and provided a nice colour contrast to the light floor and walls, and the indirect lighting provided a soft, comforting glow.  We sat in a cushioned banquette built into a bay window that was particularly nice.  They had three cask ales on draft: London Pride (of course), Adnam's Broadside and Sharp's Doom Bar.  I had a pint each of the latter. Both were in very good condition.  I had a side dish of wild mushrooms sauteed in garlic, and they were fresh and meaty and delicious.  And, somewhat surprisingly, the espresso drinks we had to finish the meal were excellent.

On the other hand, the service was spotty -- the waitress seemed only sporadically to remember that we were there, and getting her attention (particularly when she was on the telephone) was a challenge.  The scallops in our appetizer, set on a delicious bed of cold mango and mixed vegetables, were sweet and flavourful, but needed a better sear.  The biggest disappointment, though, were the mains.  Heidi's mussels were overcooked and had the texture of a kitchen sponge.  My pan-seared duck breast was chewy and flavourless.

The verdict:  Overall, disappointing at this price point.  Given its convenient location, though, we might give The Old Bull & Bush another shot for a pizza and beer in the "bar" area.

The Spaniard’s Inn: The upside of London's inability to cope with even a moderate amount of snow is that I'm working from home this week (the week before Christmas).  Yesterday, Heidi and I took Jack for a snow trek across the Heath to the Spaniards, trusting it wouldn't be too crowded on a Monday lunchtime. We were right, although a fair number of tourists and even a few locals also had braved the snow.  We really liked the ramshackle, rambling charm of the place, with an open fire in the main room, dark cushioned pews and worn wooden tables. The hot mulled wine was fruity and refreshing, and the pint of Timothy Taylor Landlord was perfect. It's easy to see why this place attracts the crowds.

One caveat: We did not eat, so I can't comment on the food, but the weekday lunch menu looked overly elaborate to me, and suspiciously so -- I cannot imagine them prepping and cooking so many different and diverse dishes well or with fresh ingredients, particularly on a slow service day.

The Holly Bush: We returned to The Holly Bush for dinner again last Saturday night (Dec. 18) and we were pleased. We tend to eat early by London standards (the better to accommodate Jack), and yet the place already was buzzing with a Saturday-before-Christmas vibe. Sure enough, our dinner was pleasantly interrupted by a round of communal caroling as the village choir came to call.

Score a big one for The Holly Bush -- although they never received our reservation and despite the crowd, they found us a table promptly. (We made our reservation through Toptable; this is the second time we've had trouble with reservations made through them.) We started with a very nice terrine of foie gras and chutney dish. For her main, Heidi again had the steak-and-ale pie, which looked so appetizing that it tempted the drinkers nearby to cancel their dinner plans elsewhere to get their own. My roasted lamb breast was equally attractive, and although the cut was fatty and the texture a bit chewy, the flavor was very good.

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.

Restaurants: Big Fat Greek Flop

The problem with watching Ramsay’s Kitchen Nightmares (the U.K. version, which is much less focused on contrived foul-mouthed confrontations, melodramatic voiceovers, and cockroaches than Kitchen Nightmares U.S.A.) is that, once you’ve seen what some restaurateurs get up to when no one is watching, you never again want to eat at a restaurant unless you’ve first inspected the kitchen.  Inevitably, you think, the “chef” will be some catering school drop-out who would rather be smoking hash out back, or some lazy line cook will sauce your lamb shank with disgusting goop that’s been left out for the rats to use as a toilet, or the entire dinner will have been bought in pre-made from Sainsbury and reheated in a microwave.

I can't say for sure, but it sure seemed to us that the last of these is what we got at Bacchus Greek Taverna in Hampstead on Friday night. We were looking for an early dinner after our Friday night pint at The Holly Bush; Bacchus is right down the hill on Heath Street. It’s brightly lit and has a charming enough interior, accented with vaguely Greek bric-a-brac.  When we showed up at the door with a pram – always a tricky proposition, because most restaurants here are very small and, by London standards, Jack’s pram is the size of a small lorry – the staff were very helpful and quickly made space for us.

Heidi went upstairs to use the restroom, and while she was gone I realized we probably had made a mistake.  The other parties in the restaurant all were American.  That doesn’t necessarily mean they were tourists, but it was a pretty good indication that the locals were not flocking to Bacchus to satisfy their cravings for Greek.

Then I realized that the conversation behind me was, in fact, a diner sending back an entire plate of lamb, complaining that it was unchewable.  (Credit the wait staff – the waitress immediately offered to bring him something else, and the manager tried to comp the meal, an offer the diner refused.  I’m glad he paid for it because both he and his companion were the sort of irritating pretentious prigs that sometimes make me ashamed of my American accent. Someone needed to pay for making me sit within earshot of their interminably self-centered, self-righteous conversation.)

The menu offered the same Greek stuff you can get at any Greek restaurant anywhere, according to Heidi, who actually lived in Greece.  (Me, I haven’t been to a Greek restaurant since 1988, when I went to a place on 113^th Street in New York and discovered that I don’t like grape leaves. Okay, last parenthetical, at least until the next one.)

For a starter we ordered spanakopita, which is feta cheese and spinach wrapped in filo dough.  Sounds delicious, doesn’t it?  It wasn’t.  I don’t know Greek food, but I’ve cooked with filo and I know how it’s supposed to be – crisp and ultra-flaky and absolutely divine.  What we were served was soggy and mushy, obviously frozen and reheated.  If you’ve ever reheated a two-day old egg roll in the microwave, you know exactly the consistency I’m talking about.

For my main course, I ordered moussaka (a bit like a Greek shepherd’s pie) and Heidi got chicken kebab with rice pilaf.  I suspected immediately the moussaka had been bought in, because it was served in exactly the same sort of single-serving dish you would get from the frozen food case at Waitrose.  Also, the layer of béchamel and cheese on top was suspiciously smooth and uniform, as if it had been machined, like one of those plastic food displays you see in Japanese restaurants.  To test my theory I drilled down to the middle, and sure enough, it was cold.  Frozen and reheated, poorly.

Heidi thought her kebab was okay. It’s hard to screw up little cubes of (supposedly) grilled chicken, but to me, the chicken looked like it had been sautéed with the heat too low – there were no grill marks, and only tiny patches of browning.  There was no question, though, that the rice pilaf was grossly undercooked and soupy.  I tried a forkful, and it was like chewing pebbles in a watery paste sauce.

When the dessert menu came, all pretense was dropped.  The dessert menu clearly had been printed for Bacchus and provided by the catering company that supplies the (probably frozen) desserts – I know this because the catering company’s logo was on the back of the menu. Needless to say, we passed on pudding.

The Verdict: Two thumbs way, way down.  It’s a shame, really.  A reasonably priced, family-run Greek place serving fresh, rustic dishes would be a nice alternative to have in this neighborhood.

The Hampstead Heritage Pub Crawl: The Holly Bush

I worked at home last Friday just because I could, and by the end of a longer-than-expected day I was hungry and ready to get out of the house.  I took my stuffy head and runny nose with me out into the drizzle and headed up to the village local for, I thought, a quick pint and a bite. (Of course, I ended up staggering home six hours later after an impromptu solo pub crawl, never having gotten that bite.  But that’s a different story.)

We consider The Holly Bush to be our village “local,” even though it’s not quite as local as we’d like.  The Holly Bush is eight tenths of a mile from our flat by the shortest route (which involves a muddy slog up a hidden alleyway), and nine tenths of a mile by our usual pram-friendly route—either way, it's a solid 20-minute walk, mostly uphill.  In contrast, there’s a pub on Finchley Road called The Castle that’s only four-tenths of a mile away, and one in West Hampstead called The Lion that’s seven-tenths of a mile away.  In fact, even The Old Bull & Bush is a mere half mile walk, and that pleasantly across the Heath.

But there is no place quite like The Holly Bush.  For starters, it is the only pub in London (so far) to which I have some sentimental attachment.  The Holly Bush, you see, was also my local pub when I spent a semester studying here in 1985 (our flat is only a few hundred yards from the college I attended).  That time was as eye opening and life changing for me as Lucinda’s year in London seems to have been for her, and I remember those six months fondly.

Then there is the pub itself. Its location is unique, tucked away on a quiet cul-de-sac at the top of Holly Mount, accessible from the High Street only by a steep stairway or an uphill climb along a narrow road.  The result is that, although it sits only 100 yards from Hampstead Tube station, it has a decidedly quiet, country-pub feel.

And the building is worthy of its location.  The pub was built in 1643 as the stables of a house later owned by painter George Romney; shortly after Romney’s death in 1802, the stables were converted to a tavern, and pints have been pouring here since 1807. Artist John Constable (who is buried at nearby St. John-at-Hampstead Church) gave an art lecture here in the early 19^th Century; physicist Michael Faraday (who refused internment in Westminster Abbey, and is buried instead across the Heath in Highgate Cemetery) participated in a gas-lit debate here on whether electricity might prove useful.  There are rumors that Samuel Johnson and Boswell drank here, and that the ghost of a long-departed waitress still takes the occasional food order.

The Holly Bush is now a Fuller’s pub, so one should expect that most or all of the five cask ales would be Fuller’s products.  On this visit, they were pouring Fuller’s London Pride, ESB, Discovery and Seafarer’s.  They have also always had Harvey’s Sussex Bitter available when I have been there, and in fact The Holly Bush is reputed to pour the best pint of Sussex in London.  (I have not yet had the opportunity to verify that claim.)  A pint of Sussex from The Holly Bush is indeed a fine bitter beer.

If I have a complaint about The Holly Bush, it’s that the gastro portion of the business has become too dominant – specifically, the pub accepts bookings for most of its tables for diners, including those in the very popular coffee bar. This can leave the drop-in punter feeling a bit squeezed out on a busy evening, as there are relatively few tables and it is a popular pub.  On the other hand, having had an excellent (if pricey) braised venison shank and a superior steak-and-ale pie here, we would have few qualms about booking a table ourselves if we were looking for a place to eat and drink, rather than just to drink.

Update: We returned to The Holly Bush for dinner again last Saturday night and we were pleased. We tend to eat early by London standards (the better to accomodate Jack), and yet the place already was buzzing with a Saturday-before-Christmas vibe. Sure enough, our dinner was pleasantly interrupted by a round of communal caroling as the village choir came to call.

Score a big one for The Holly Bush -- although they never received our reservation and despite the crowd, they found us a table promptly. (We made our reservation through Toptable; this is the second time we've had trouble with reservations made through them.) We started with a very nice terrine of foie gras and chutney dish. For her main, Heidi again had the steak-and-ale pie, which looked so appetizing that it tempted the drinkers nearby to cancel their dinner plans elsewhere to get their own. My roasted lamb breast was equally attractive, and although the cut was fatty and the texture a bit chewy, the flavor was very good.

The Verdict: There is no question that The Holly Bush will be on the pub crawl, and will likely be the first (and possibly final) destination.

The Hampstead Heritage Pub Crawl: The Duke of Hamilton

The Duke of Hamilton

I took a roundabout route up the hill from The Flask on my way to The Duke of Hamilton, so I could eyeball  the Wells Tavern and The Old White Bear (formerly, Ye Olde White Bear) along the way .  I had excluded those historic pubs from my original list of contenders because I had heard that, as the Old Bull & Bush, recent renovations had turned them into gastropubs that were more gastro than pub.  I confirmed that neither was suitable for the pub crawl, but it seems that Heidi, Jack and I will have no shortage of new places to try for Sunday roast.

I knew from the first that The Duke was going to be different—it was so quiet and empty-looking from the street I thought it was closed.  As I went up the steps to the entrance, I passed a small group of twenty-somethings debating whether to go in on a lark, as if they had been dared to do so.  I had no such qualms and headed inside.

The Duke's Bar

And I immediately thought I’d regret it.  The place was stone quiet – no music, no television, no murmur of conversation or clinking glasses.  There was no restaurant buzz because there is no food service here.  Instead, a couple of grizzled old regulars stood at the left end of the bar, and a few more sat at a table in the corner.  Off to my right sat a little family of French tourists with soft drinks, looking every bit like they had wandered in by mistake and been trapped inside.   I felt a bit like Griffin Dunne and David Naughton when they walked into the Slaughtered Lamb in An American Werewolf in London.

And, in fact, the Duke reminded me a bit of that pub.  The interior is a squared off U-shape around the bar, with a fireplace on either side.  Checkers and chess tables were off the left; darts off to the right.  The decor consisted of old cricket and rugby memorabilia, hung over (and sometimes pasted onto) 1960s era wallpaper.  The bar itself was topped with an attractive panel of wood and stained glass, with up-curving lamps reflecting light off the ceiling.  The overall effect was of a posh pub gone to seed, or a seedy pub slightly spiffed up.

I suspect it is the former, because the Duke has been having a rough time of it lately.  Although there has been a pub under the same name on the site since 1721, the Duke’s current building is not protected.  It sits in New End, well away from the High Street, across from a former hospital that has been converted into residences.  (The pub’s next door neighbour, the New End Theatre, was the hospital’s mortuary until 1974.)  When the lease was due to expire, the owners notified the tenant publican that the pub was to be closed and converted into housing.

There was a popular uprising against the plan, and the owners eventually withdrew their planning application.  It is believed, however, that they intend to file a new application, and in the meantime the publican’s lease expired.  The Duke is thus operating in limbo, and that’s how the place feels.

There were five cask handles at the bar, but only three were pouring – two were the ever-present London Pride, the third was Fuller’s ESB.  I got an ESB and scuttled off with my beer and my Faulkner novel to a little table off to the right of the bar, near a framed photograph of Oliver Reed, who (I am informed) made great strides toward drinking himself to death in this very pub.  Other notable patrons have included Richard Burton, Elizabeth Taylor and Peter O’Toole.

As I sat and enjoyed my pint and read my book, two or three groups of younger people came in and the old regulars began to take their leave, off home to supper.  Eventually, a group of college-age kids occupied the darts area, and by the time I drained the glass and toddled off home, the place at last felt like a pub.

The Verdict:  If The Duke survives, its location in the New End and its distinct look make it a likely stop for a quick one.

The Hampstead Heritage Pub Crawl: The Flask

The Flask and Flask Walk

A beer!  A beer!  My kingdom for a beer!

Disappointed at the Spaniards, I headed back across the Heath to Hampstead village proper, hoping that there I could find a suitable pub and a proper pint.

The Flask has neither the history nor the Heath-side location of the Old Bull & Bush and the Spaniards.  It is a Victorian pub, built in 1874—almost brand new!—sitting a mere half-block off Hampstead High Street on Flask Walk.  The name derives from the flasks of “medicinal” well water sold here when the village was famous as a spa, the promise being the pure water could cure “idleness, dissipation and frivolity.”

And there I was, hoping to cultivate a little idleness, dissipation and frivolity.

The medicinal water has gone, but some of the Victorian charm remains.  The bar is divided in two, with a small “public bar” to the left and a larger “saloon bar” and conservatory to the right.  This was a common division in Victorian pubs—the public bar was for drinking and darts; the saloon bar offered entertainment for those willing to pay a separate admission fee or a higher price for the beer.  At The Flask, the two areas are separated by a beautiful glass divider installed in 1880, which is itself a protected heritage structure.  The public bar is still for drinking; the saloon bar and conservatory now house the "gastro" portion of the pub, and have been given over primarily to dining.

The famous 1880 glass divider, seen from the public bar.

Of course, I was there for a drink, so I went straight into the public bar.  The place was doing a healthy business, but the staff was nowhere to be seen.  I finally got fed up with waiting and went over to the saloon bar, where I was able to track down a server and order a pint.

The Flask is a Young’s pub —it is common in Britain for a pub to be owned by a brewery, operated by a tenant landlord, and serve primarily the owner’s products—so four of the five cask ales they were pouring were Young’s beers.  The fifth was a guest beer, the Wandle Ale from Sambrook’s Brewery in Battersea.  I’d recently had the Wandle (and enjoyed it immensely) at The Draft House, so I ordered a simple pint of Young’s bitter, and drank it standing at the bar.

And it was good.  Generally, I find the Young’s to be one of those ordinary bitters (Boddington's is another) that is just too mild in flavour to be a great beer—neither malty nor hoppy nor distinct enough to separate it from the pack.  But it’s a decent bitter, and it was clear that the bar staff cared for the beer properly and served it at an appropriate temperature and an appropriate (i.e., low) level of carbonation.

And seen from the saloon bar.

The verdict:  The Flask is a worthy contender for the pub crawl, but as they say in the football trade, it's not an automatic starter. The Flask meets all the criteria for the crawl, and it is well situated to be an intermediate refuelling stop on the way to or from pubs further down the High Street.

A hit! A palpable hit!

Up next: The Duke of Hamilton

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.

The Hampstead Heritage Pub Crawl: Spaniards Inn

The Spaniards Inn

I left the Old Bull & Bush and headed back into the Heath, continuing along the same path.  Just as I was getting into a good rhythm­—again, surprisingly quickly­—I found myself on Spaniard’s Road, behind the famous Spaniards Inn.

I was looking forward to this one.  Pubs don’t get much more historic than the Spaniards.  Originally built in 1585, the inn hosted Keats, Shelley and Byron in the heyday of the romantic poets; it is mentioned in both Stoker’s Dracula and Dickens’s The Pickwick Papers; and it is one of the most notorious haunted pubs in Britain, reputedly harbouring the ghost of infamous highwayman Dick Turpin (1705-1739).

The Spaniards is also famously dog friendly—they offer organic doggy treats and baths to dogs who bring their muddy masters in from the Heath.  I imagined many a walk with Jazz that included a refuelling stop at the Spaniards.

I still do. But never again on a Sunday.

Traffic hazard!

The first problem I encountered is that getting into the pub is a hazard to life and limb.  Spaniard’s Road is very busy on a Sunday afternoon, but the road narrows at the inn so that only one car can go through at a time.  There is no traffic control, and no pedestrian walk way.  So you just kind of have to sneak up the side of the building, and duck around the corner hoping no one is trying to drive through from the other side at the same time.

Then there’s the atrocious car park, which along with the building’s whitewashed exterior gives the impression of a second-rate roadside attraction somewhere in New Mexico.  That’s not entirely inaccurate, because the pub is very much a tourist attraction in its own right.  And for purposes of my pub crawl, that’s a problem.

A lovely beer garden . . .

The pub is fronted with a huge, multilevel  beer garden with ample tables, leading down to the dog bath.  Most of the tables were empty on this cool November afternoon, and after the disaster at the Bull & Bush, I was looking forward to zipping up my jacket and having a nice pint under the sunny skies.

But then I went inside.  The place was mobbed.  Patrons were aligned in ranks at the bar, three or four deep.  That’s okay, I thought, I have nowhere to be and no one is waiting for me.  I could wait. So I waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And while I was waiting, I noticed that they were pouring only three or four cask beers, and two had the handle tags turned around – the signal that the casks were empty.  The third was the ubiquitous London Pride.

. . . and a nice interior -- if you avoid the crowds!

Whew! The fourth cask ale was called Tribute, a bitter from St. Austell’s Brewery in Cornwall, which I had never tried before.  Okay! A new beer to try to justify the wait.  So I waited a little more.

And waited.

And waited.

And then just as I got to the bar, the woman in front of me decided she wanted to order mixed drinks.  For a half dozen people.  And she wasn’t sure what she wanted. And she kept changing her order. And then she decided to order food. For a half dozen people. And she wasn’t sure what she wanted. And she kept changing her order.

And the moron behind the bar did nothing to speed things up or hurry her along, or to serve the dozens of other customers trapped behind her.

So I left.  To hell with these people.  I’ll spend my money elsewhere.

Strike 2!

Up next: The Flask

Update: The upside of London's inability to cope with even a moderate amount of snow is that I'm working from home this week (the week before Christmas).  Yesterday, Heidi and I took Jack for a snow trek across the Heath to the Spaniards, trusting it wouldn't be too crowded on a Monday lunchtime. We were right, although a fair number of tourists and even a few locals also had braved the snow.  We really liked the ramshackle, rambling charm of the place, with an open fire in the main room, dark cushioned pews and worn wooden tables. The hot mulled wine was fruity and refreshing, and the pint of Timothy Taylor Landlord was perfect. It's easy to see why this place attracts the crowds.

One caveat: We did not eat, so I can't comment on the food, but the weekday lunch menu looked suspiciously elaborate to me -- I can't imagine them prepping and cooking so many different and diverse dishes well or with fresh ingredients, particularly on a slow service day.

The Hampstead Heritage Pub Crawl: The Old Bull & Bush

Being entirely selfless, I decided to spend my Sunday afternoon scouting out a pub crawl for those who might wish to visit our fair village in future, and who might be inclined to enjoy such activities (by which I mean, of course, anyone over the age of majority with the intent of spending one or more nights under my roof).

There are, of course, innumerable pubs in London, and innumerable pub crawls published in guidebooks or on the web.  But I have exacting criteria for the pubs I want in my crawl.

First, all of the pubs have to be within walking distance of my house, or at least within walking distance of two other pubs on the crawl that are within walking distance of my house (so that we have refuelling stations on both the outbound and return journeys).  I’m sure I’ll eventually get around to creating a pub crawl that makes use of London’s excellent transport network, but as this is my first, I want clear constraints. Plus, walking is free, and the money you save on transport you can spend on beer.

Second, the pub has to serve real ale, from a cask, on a hand pump.  As far as I’m concerned, serving cask ale is one major distinguishing feature between a real pub and a mere bar.  Now that, thanks to CAMRA, pubs serving traditional cask ale are so common, I see no point in patronizing an establishment that only pours a few macrobrew Eurolagers (usually Peroni, Stella and/or Heineken) plus, maybe, Guinness.

Third, the pub has to have some historic significance—perhaps a connection to an historical or literary personage, or perhaps an historical building.  In Hampstead, it turns out, a lot of pubs have both.

The afternoon was clear and pleasantly cool, so I identified several pubs that I thought might fit the bill and headed off across the Heath!

The Old Bull & Bush

My first stop was the Old Bull & Bush, which is a surprisingly short, straight shot across the Heath from the nearest entrance to our house.  (I got there so fast, in fact, that I felt cheated out of a nice walk.)

The Old Bull & Bush

The pub certainly has the historical pedigree I was looking for—there has been a pub on the site since 1721; the current building is a Grade II listed historical building; English artists William Hogarth (1697-1764), Thomas Gainsborough (1727-1788) and Joshua Reynolds (1723-1792) all drank there; and the pub was the subject of a hit song called “Down at the Old Bull & Bush” before The Great War.  (That would be, of course, the first War to End All Wars.)

Yet I rejected the place immediately.  In 2006, the interior of the pub was renovated to turn it into a modern gastropub.  There’s nothing wrong with that, of course—a lot of pubs have gone that route; in fact, in August of this year, food sales generated more revenue than drink sales at British pubs for the first time.  Indeed, a good gastropub is like Disneyland to me: a truly magical kingdom.

But the Bull & Bush did it badly—it doesn’t feel like a gastropub; it feels and looks like a restaurant with a bar. As if to emphasize that fact, the cask selection was limited to two tap handles, both pouring Fuller’s London Pride.  Nothing wrong with London Pride—it’s a good beer, brewed locally—but Fuller’s global presence means it’s not a particularly special beer (especially when other pubs on my list are Fuller’s pubs).  And I can’t even credit the Bull & Bush for having its heart in the right place—its website touts Bloody Marys rather than cask ales; it has a wine list, but no beer menu.

The Old Bull & Bush seems a nice little restaurant, and I can imagine enjoying a Sunday roast here with Heidi, Jack and Jazz.  But this place simply is not pub enough to make my pub crawl.

In fact, I didn’t even stay long enough to order a pint. Strike one!

Up Next: The Spaniards Inn

UPDATE: 26-Nov-10

Heidi, Jack and I returned to The Old Bull & Bush for dinner tonight.  The results were mixed. We liked the ambiance of the dining room: the black wooden tables were well spaced and provided a nice color contrast to the light floor and walls, and the indirect lighting provided a soft, comforting glow.  We sat in a cushioned banquette built into a bay window that was particularly nice.  They had three cask ales on draft: London Pride (of course), Adnam's Broadside and Sharp's Doom Bar.  I had a pint each of the latter. Both were in very good condition.  I had a side dish of wild mushrooms sauteed in garlic, and they were fresh and meaty and delicious.  And, somewhat surprisingly, the espresso drinks we had to finish the meal were excellent.

On the other hand, the service was spotty -- the waitress seemed only sporadically to remember that we were there, and getting her attention (particularly when she was on the telephone) was a challenge.  The scallops in our appetizer, set on a delicious bed of cold mango and mixed vegetables, were sweet and flavorful, but needed a better sear.  The biggest disapointments, though were the mains.  Heidi's mussels were overcooked and had the texture of a kitched sponge.  My pan-seared duck breast was chewy and flavorless.

The verdict:  Overall, disappointing at this price point.  Given its convenient location, though, we might give The Old Bull & Bush another shot for a pizza and beer in the "bar" area.

Football: Come on, you Whites!

With Heidi and Jack away, I decided to take in my first English top flight football match in 25 years.  The only available tickets in town were for Fulham vs. Aston Villa, so a day out in Fulham it would be.

Fulham's stadium--known by the wonderfully English moniker "Craven Cottage"--is as far south as one can get and still be north of the river, in a part of the city famous for its crap transport links.  As a result, even though I was going only 9 miles, I was facing 90 minutes on the bus with a slog on foot thereafter.  Fortunately, that slog would take me within slogging distance of two of London's top pubs.  I left home at 10:30 a.m. for a 3:00 p.m. kick off, to give myself plenty of time.

The White Horse, Parsons Green

My first stop, the White Horse at the tip of Parsons Green, is frequently rated on beer-geek sites as one of London's best.  I expected to be disappointed, because the raters on sites like that tend to be American tourists who never ventured outside of tourist London.

But I wasn't disappointed.  I loved the place.  At noon on Saturday the place was starting to fill and had a great atmosphere.  The main room was high-ceilinged, bright and airy; the side rooms were cozier, with dark wood paneling. The furnishings included large, plush chairs and sofas, spacious stables with benches, and inviting snugs.

The White Horse, Interior

The service at the bar was prompt and friendly, and the selection of cask ales on draft was as good as it was reputed to be.  The only minor complaint I had was that the the porter I originally ordered was off line, but in its stead I had a delicious Dark Star Brewery Over the Moon, a dark, hoppy mild ale.

By the time I finished my pint, the bar was getting crowded and I had a long walk ahead of me, so I took my leave.  I followed Kings Road for about a mile across Putney Bridge, where swarms of Aston Villa fans, visiting from Birmingham, were taking photos of the river.  It was still 2 hours to match time, but already I had passed two pubs that were so crowded they were turning people away, so I became concerned whether my planned second stop was going to happen.

Fortunately, the Bricklayer's Arms is off the main street on a little cul de sac, and although it was beginning to fill up with punters stopping in for a pre-match pint, they appeared to be beer-savvy locals rather than the traveling hordes.  And those beer-savvy locals have something good going, because this is a peach of a pub.

The Bricklayer's Arms, Putney

It's a small place, with a few tables in front of a horseshoe-shaped bar, a larger back room, and a snug little beer garden beside.  The decor was charming -- white panelled walls topped with molding, beneath a yard of worn, exposed brick, and in the rear room dark beams, vaulted like the ribs of an inverted ship.  Four friendly bartenders worked the small bar, and they managed to give prompt service even while answering question after question about the 10 cask ales they were pouring.

The beer was good, too. I started with a St. Magnus Ale from Highland Brewing Co., which was a big, malty beer nicely balanced with generous hopping.  I followed that the HBB from Hog's Back, a bitter with a slightly fruity hop nose, but generally very mild in flavor.  I finished with the Plain Ales Inndulgence, a dark porter dominated by chocolate and coffee flavors, but with an unfortunate sweet note marring the finish.

When the police descended on the place--four constables in bright yellow high-visibility vests, apparently conducting some prophylactic anti-hooliganism tour of the local drinking establishments--I decided it was time to head over to Craven Cottage.  The walking path took me back across and along the river, down a tree covered path through Bishop's Park, past the wall and tower of Fulham Palace.  Easily the most attractive walk to a sports stadium I've ever taken.

Craven Cottage, Johnny Haynes Stand, Exterior

Craven Cottage itself is small for a Premier League stadium--at a capacity of 25,700, it is slightly smaller than the Home Depot Center, home of the Los Angeles Galaxy--but what it lacks in grandeur it makes up for in character.  The oldest of the four stands, the Johnny Haynes Stand, is a protected heritage building dating from 1905.  Of course, this has its downsides--the roof, for example, is supported by columns that restrict the views in some 1500 seats, including mine.  But I was only seven rows up from the pitch, so even my restricted view was a fantastic view, and I doubt there is a bad seat in the house.

The game iself was largely forgettable, with only a handful of scoring chances.  Aston Villa largely dominated, and they opened the scoring with a gorgeous 60-yard cross field pass that Fulham defender Carlos Salcido misjudged, allowing Villa's Mark Albrighton to take the ball down and easily slot past Fulham  keeper Mark Schwarzer. Fulham, though, grabbed an undeserved equalizer in the 94th minute, off a deflected header from a free kick, much to the home crowd's delight.


With the game over, time for the slog back home. I had no post-match agenda, and I was tired, so after the long walk to Hammersmith tube and a quick stop at Waitrose for some food, I settled in for an evening with a good book.

Next up -- the Hampstead Heritage Pub Tour, Part 1!!