The Queens Arms: Quintessential Gastro Pub

A Jewel of a Gastro Pub!

You’re asking yourself, what the hell is a Gastro Pub?  In the last ten years or so, a good number of London pubs added lively menus to their already excellent selection of beers.  Why bother?  You don’t come to a pub for the coq au vin!

As Lee Corso says, not so fast my friend.  The scene changes in front of our eyes.  We know that yesterday is not today, but we’re slow to grasp the subtleties.

There was a time, not so long ago, when pubs catered mostly to locals or special groups.  A pub in every neighborhood, in every district.  A working man’s pub, or a footballer’s pub, or an after work spot for the coat and tie crowd. They still exist, but they’re becoming more rare.  

Wanta know the ‘why’ of change?  Follow the money.  Take a gander at the London real estate market!

Now picture the pub owner who caters to a handful of regulars.  A new mall is planned, or the gentry upscale the area and the pub owner’s offered a couple of kegs of gold for his property.  Maybe, the pub keeper just gets too old to pull a hundred pints a day.  Too often, the pub just closes.

How do you tell a traditional, or local pub?  When you walk in, conversation stops and a couple of dozen eyeballs look you over like you’re a man who’s just come out of the ladies’ room. The menu seldom varies.  Sausages and mash. Shepard’s pie.  Steak and kidney pudding. Fish and chips.  Not bad, but predictable.

A younger crew takes over, less bound to tradition, more attuned to the Food Network.  Dreams soar!  Meat pies and chips (fries) get a facelift. Sauces, herbs, and other exotic flavors rule the kitchen.  Simple mash becomes buttery, garlic potatoes. Wine lists decorate every table.  A full selection of potables echoes from the mirror at the bar.

Better be good enough to compete with the restaurants.  Better be some place to take a wife or a date, and hip enough for the younger generation.  Some place bright and cheery, but still with that traditional pub feel and a fine selection of gravity ales.

Enter the ‘gastro pub.’  Brighter colors on the outside. Flowers outside and in.  More like a French bistro, yet still pubish.  Lots of dark wooden tables and bistro chairs. Brighter, indirect lighting, with a nod to atmosphere.

The food?  Definitely worth a second or third trip.  The Queens Arms did it for me.  Went there a couple of years ago and had a splendid assortment of finger food, along with some tasty ales.  Soon as I was in the area again, the QA sprang to mind.

Don't neglect the hard ciders.  Apple flavor without the sweetness.

It’s a tough place to find, tucked neatly away on a little street called Queens Gate Mews.  The complication comes in the name.  Nearby run Queens Gate Terrace and Queens Gate itself. Wait a sec, there are also TWO Queens Gate Mews!

It was raining.  Hard.  We ambled lost and forlorn.  With the hood on my rain jacket pulled up, my field of vision was a railway tunnel with blinders on.

In the rain streaked gloaming, I stopped in front of a big picture window, back from the street and about half a story off the ground.  I waved both my arms and got a young woman’s attention.  “Queens Gate Mews,” I mouthed.  She pointed to the right, then the left, then held up a finger for me to wait while she conferred with a colleague.   The two women pulled out a map.  Consulted a computer.  The rain poured.  They discussed the situation, again pointing left and right.  Back to the computer.

The woman pointed toward the door and motioned for me to meet her.  I was with my wife.  Opportunity lost.  I joined her under the front porch roof for an exchange of  finger pointing lessons on the map.  Success!  Cross Queens Gate Street, turn onto Queens Gate Terrace, walk on in the dark and stormy night, and turn into Queens Gate Mews.  There you will find The Queens Arms.

What is a Mews?  Simply put, a side street of former stables, now morphed into  classy apartments that only Bill Gates’ immediate family can afford. Mews comes from the roost for hunting falcons. When mews became stables, the name stayed.

This time, I needed something more substantial than tasty little morsels. I got it!  Chorizo and minced pork burger, laden with dark caramelized onions.  Light, herbed crab cakes.  The traditional fish and chips.  Also, one of the best selection of beers in the city.

Pork and chorizo burger. Dazzling! 

Feather light crab cakes with oven roasted, garlic potatoes.

Light, flaky pastry covers a chicken pot pie! 

This is not a place you want to dash into and dash back out.  Especially if it’s raining.  The QA is a freehouse, meaning they don’t belong to a brewery and can serve any ale they want.  There’s a photo of the ‘pulls’ on offer when I was there, but the ale menu changes often. The barman told me they had another dozen new kegs in the cellar. 

Make no mistake, the QA means eating and drinking on a semi-lavish scale, with a nod to both tradition and economy.

Enough blather.  Time to order another pint.  The night’s young.  The ales are perfect.

Frankfurt Airport - Enjoy the Flight!

Dazzling view from the second deck.

Know anybody who yearns to go to the airport?  Hungers for airport food?

Let me be the first.  Frankfurt Airport.  Frankfurt, Germany.  Ok, yearn may be overdoing it.  Seldom does a trip to FRA mean a quick flight, with hugs and wet kisses on the other end.  More likely it’s eight or nine hours of skull-numbing boredom and a snarly question:  “Ya want chicken or beef?”  How ‘bout we go to the galley and I show you a dance called chicken-do-da-colonoscopy?

Ah, but I’m getting ahead of myself.  After you check your bags, what’s your next step?  Grab a cup of coffee? I don’t recommend that if you’re at the Frankfurt Airport. 

Listen carefully.

Your next step is to head to Terminal 2, ride the escalators to the second deck, and stroll into the Flyaway Bar for breakfast, or lunch.  Pretty sure they serve breakfast all day long, but between jet-lag and a wide range of departure times, how the hell would I remember?  But, I do remember the food.

The choices are English Breakfast, French Breakfast, German Breakfast, European Breakfast, waffles, or any of a dozen lunch choices.  A quick question?  What are the differences between all those Breakfasts?  A quick answer:  Not much.  English is scrambled eggs, grilled tomato, baked beans, grilled mushrooms, bacon, toast, and sausage.

With the French Breakfast, keep the eggs, scratch the rest, and add fresh orange juice, cold-cuts, including smoked salmon, plus a baguette, chocolate croissant, and a bunch of toppings for the baguette.

European Breakfast is much the same as the French. German Breakfast leans heavily on cold-cuts, toast, and toppings. 

Oh yeah!  Jaeger Schnitzel!

No German meal is complete without beer!

But, I say, you’re only young and beautiful once. Ah, how I remember those lusty years! Scrap the breakfasts and go for the gold:  Jaeger schnitzel, with greens, a heaping of golden fries, and a tankard of good German beer!  Jaeger schnitzel means hunter-schnitzel, and there’s a heathy ladling of creamy bacon-mushroom sauce over the top.  Hey, it’s a public place; even your wife won’t make a scene when you suck down beer for breakfast.  Use your leverage, order another!  Call attention to yourself!  Stand up and make loud toasts!  Sway with your tankard held high and sing drinking songs at the top of your lungs.

Maybe just a coffee and baguette...

With tomatoes and mozzarella!

The full plan for an early flight.  Stay up late the night before.  Give yourself time for the Flyaway Bar.  Order the schnitzel and beer and beer.  Get on the plane and sleep like an anesthetized infant for the full eight hours.  It’s like a time machine and you’re comatose when they come around with that stupid question: “Ya want chicken or beef?”

The Paris Architect - Don't Settle for a Good Book, Read a Great One!

Whada ya like to read?  Me, I’m easy.  All it takes is a strong, relentless plot, riveting characters, chair-tipping-suspense, spine-chilling bloodshed, stout hero or heroine, and unrepentant villains, proudly wearing their black hearts on their sleeves.  Gotta engage me from guts to heart, and be well written.  See, I’m easy to please.

Just finished a book that has it all.  The Paris Architect by Charles Belfoure.  The setting is Paris, circa 1940.  The German Army owns Paris, and runs it like a combination whore house and shooting gallery.  Life is so difficult that people stand in line for stale bread and watered wine. Those are the normal folks. Jews have it far worse. They’re rounded up daily by the Gestapo, men, women, and children, never to be seen again.

The French can be difficult and Parisians worse. Not known as comforters of the weak, or downtrodden, as Americans who walk into their restaurant and try to speak French with a Texas accent will attest.  The author was nice enough not to include any Americans.

What he did include is Lucien, an architect with the soul of an artist and a one track mind.  Make that three tracks.  His work.  His mistress.  Saving his own skin.  Lucien’s moral compass, while not rusted shut, is a little out of whack.  He sees what’s going on, but brushes it off.  Not all Germans are bad.  Some soldiers give up their tram seats to little old ladies.

Enter Monsieur Monet.  As wealthy as an emperor’s only child.  A well connected aristocratic industrialist.  He has a little job for the architect, Lucien. Maybe two.  In this time of hand-to-mouth living, a couple of jobs is a path to your family’s next meal.

But, every deal has its price.  Balancing a wife and mistress is already as stressful as an amiable chat with the Gestapo’s boys in black. Let’s tack on complications.  Severe complications.

Want to climb into that dark hole of a plot and wiggle around with characters that fill your dreams of best friend, best lover, worst enemy?  Welcome to Lucien’s world.  Welcome to The Paris Architect by Charles Belfoure.

Go ahead.  Pick it up.  Now try to put it back down.

McCrady's in Charleston: Come for a Drink. Stay for a while.

Charleston, South Carolina, home to historic Ft Sumter, The Citadel (Military College of South Carolina), The College of Charleston, The Medical University of South Carolina, and the world-renowned Spoleto Festival, is many things to many people. Tourists flock for the history and the food and the festive atmosphere.  Yachts, large and small bob in neat rows at a myriad of sun-bleached docks. 

Charleston reeks of history.  If you think that’s an exaggeration, just follow those tourist-filled, horse-drawn carriages as they prowl the cobblestones. 

Go ahead.  Jump into one of the most special places in North America.  Bask at the beaches.  Bargain at the old, brick vegetable market, or suck down some oysters at a hundred and one places. Stay at a fashionable downtown hotel, or just amble along the confluence of the Ashley and Cooper Rivers and stare at the narrow streets lined with stately antebellum homes.

Ah, but in the evening, when a gentleman and his lady, or his friends, or people he barely knows get thirsty, they have choices.  Slosh down a pint of suds over fried seafood, or winnow through the old section of town and find something worthy of a slow touch and a carefully drawn out evening.

I have often mellowed in Charleston.  Swilled a toddy or two here and there.  Not saying any of the watering holes were bad.  Matter of fact, I’ve darkened a few doorways more than once.

When they say 'alley,' they mean it!

But, this time, I found a special haunt.  McCrady’s Restaurant, tucked away in an historic building at 2 Unity Alley.  No trouble to find.  March along East Bay until you see the sign. Don’t let the word ‘restaurant’ put you off.  The bar is right out of the 1930s.  Carey Grant and Humphrey Bogart style.

Dating from 1788, McCrady’s owns a piece of history.  The building, originally a four story public house, was erected by Edward McCrady and although the inside has been altered, the new owners showed due reverence for a building that is on the National Registry For Historic Places and Landmarks.

My friends and I didn’t go for the food, which I understand is locally gathered and prepared by a noted chef. We went for social drinks, to practice the declining art of relishing each sip, and sharing good conversation. If you want to be surrounded by dark wood paneling, and served by barkeeps who know their libations and didn’t graduate from high school just last week, McCrady’s is the spot.  

When I chat with someone about wine, it grates to hear, “It’s like a really, really fruity Merlot? You know, I like really, really love it with caramel crunch Hagen Daaz?”  Being a person of temperate mood, I usually walk away, rather than empty a full clip and reload. But, I’m always tempted.

Ryan, at your service.

No riffraff behind the bar at McCrady’s, where they proudly call their drink recipes ‘pre-prohibition.’  Ryan, a young, bearded barman, knows his stuff, with just a touch of attitude that lets you know, he ain’t messin’ around.  He really does know his stuff.  My friend, a connoisseur of the Spanish grape, mentioned a notable region and Ryan’s eyes lit up.  He knew the region and pointed out several wines from the award winning wine list.  Ryan also called our attention to a French vintage.  “Small winery, and special.  We seldom score more than a case or two.”  My friend’s eyes rolled back at the first sip.  I gave it a sniff and a smaller sip.  Smooth.  Full nose and full flavor, but easy on the tannin.  Notes of berries and leather.  In short, a 2004 Rhone that made you wish you’d paid more attention in French class.

Lots of other things about McCrady’s are special. Small hand-labelled bottles stand on the bar. Mute testimony to house-made bitters, ready to spice any Manhattan, and even greater testimony to "this is a serious drinking establishment."

For me, it was a beer night.  I went for a dark, almost black, house stout.  Our other two drinkers followed up with a bourbon and a full bodied ale.  Nobody complained.  And nobody said a word for the first few sips.

McCrady’s is like that.  You feel a strong need to linger, to relish the moment.  Shadows fall across the long Mohogany bar.  Look up and you’ll glimpse the second story, where a glass wall protects row after row of wine. Behind you, corner booths offer a nod to privacy.

Feel like a little nosh?  The specials change daily.  Read them off the blackboard at the end of the bar.  We had bite-sized chunks of tender lamb, skewered, grilled, and served in a wooden bowl, with a delicate mint yogurt condiment. 

I already mentioned I’d been to a few other drinking establishments in Charleston.  For the life of me, I can’t remember the names.  Once you’ve found McCrady’s, the rest fade.  It’s a hideaway that makes any evening special.  Take only your closest friends.  You’ll be there awhile.  Cheers!

Pearlz - Slurp Down Those Oysters in Charleston South Carolina

Pearlz Oyster Bar, Charleston, South Carolina...but wait a sec, let’s take a moment to suck in some historic salty air and remember the past...

Charleston’s cobblestone streets have carried the weight of leather soles and horses’ hooves for hundreds of years. The vast port and shoreline has sheltered merchant ships and seen the Pirate’s Jolly Roger. English soldiers and sailors, Confederates, Union soldiers and sailors, and a host of others left their mark. Charleston started as the heart of an English colony and grew to become a center of culture and agriculture in the newly founded United States.  History.  Culture. Food on a grand scale.  What the hell more do you want?

Most people know Charleston as the starting place for the Civil War, or the War of Northern Aggression, as Charlestonians choose to call it. 

Here’s something from an earlier conflict that you may not know.  Although most of the Revolutionary War battles we learn about in history class took place in New England, in sheer numbers, more Revolutionary War battles were fought in South Carolina than in any other state.   It was a long war, 1775 to 1783 and Charleston was smack in the center.

Enough digression.  What’s really important?  Seafood in general, and oysters in particular!  Lots of places to dine on fresh mollusks.  Every corner, every road has a restaurant serving fresh seafood, and the historic downtown area is crammed with ‘em.  Deciding is a challenge.  Fortunately for you, I have faced that challenge victoriously!  

Pearlz is the correct answer.  There are three locations: downtown, West Ashley, and two hours north in the state capital, Columbia.  I wandered into Pearlz on West Ashley and never bothered to try the other two.

An oyster bar is supposed to be dimly lit, with shadows on the walls, fresher than fresh seafood, a New Orleans smell and feel, and lots of style.  I don’t mean style as in Vogue and GQ.  I’m talking about muted colors, tile floors, and people wearing anything from jeans and worn t-shirts to coats and ties. At Pearlz feel free to discuss your glass of remarkable Chardonnay with the stranger on the stool next to you.  It’s one of those American melting pots where everyone is welcome and nobody feels out of place.

Cold beer?  You bet.  Lots of it, including several Pearlz labeled brews on tap.  I usually choose the amber variety.  You want good taste, but not too strong a flavor when you’ve sliding oysters down your throat.  Not feeling the beer urge?  Huge wine selection.  Fab martinis.

Let’s move on to the basics.  So, for the first timers, do you chew raw oysters or just let ‘em slide down your throat?  Chew ‘em, for goodness sakes!  What the hell are you, a barbarian?

Sauce or no sauce?  The real aficionados go the naked route, but I prefer a squeeze of lemon and just a tad bit of red sauce, spiced with horseradish.

Pearlz offers a wide selection of oysters, coming all the way from Canada and the Gulf.    All are fresh, plump and delicious, with just a bare bite of the briny. Is there a difference in flavor?  Yes, there is, but prices vary widely.  I go for the cheapest because they’re wonderful and affordable.  Can’t be because I’m just cheap. Nah...

Even if you’re not in the mood for raw oysters (I offer condolences and hope you feel better) there are dozens of ways to enjoy both oysters and seafood and steak and hamburgers at Pearlz.  The fried shrimp tacos simply amaze! The shrimp are fired in a light batter and served over seasoned lettuce in a flour tortilla. The blackened mahi is divine.  Crusty outside.  Juicy within.

Pearlz also makes it’s own potato chips, so wonderfully crisp and tasty they should grace every table.  No exceptions, especially if you’re ‘lack-of-taste’ intolerant, as I am.

When it comes to restaurants, Charleston rivals New Orleans and is catching up fast.  And, at the end of a trying day of plodding the cobblestones, clopping around on a carriage ride, and gaping at historic Charleston’s churches, plantations, and such, you need a place to cast off the travelers’ blues and unwind.  

You’ve found it! Park your ride.  Slip into dark, air-conditioned comfort. Grab a table, booth, or jump on a bar stool.  You’re primed and ready.  “Barkeep, how about a frosty lager and a dozen on the half shell?” Relax. Dig into fresh seafood. 

Hey, this is Pearlz on West Ashley!  Cheers!

T-Bone's Sports Cafe in Chattanooga

Not just any sports cafe!

Fall means football!  Sorry, I meant FOOTBALL!!! Yeah, yeah, leaves turning, mornings have a cool bite, school buses clog the roads.  Just static on the radio. Ignore them.

Quick...what’s your favorite team?  Can’t answer without another brain-stunting sip of your foamy,skinny-soy-caramel-mocha-latté?  Do us both a favor.  Skip the rest of my ode to testosterone, and grab a copy of Dr. Limp’s “Your Brain, A User’s Manual.”

For normal folks, and by that of course I mean those who slosh pitchers of beer, crunch tongue-aflame nachos, gobble fiery wings without the chickens attached, and leave the cleanup for somebody else, read on.

No time to grill wings and burgers, but still need the feel of a crispy autumn day, the smell of the crowd, the roar of the heartburn?  Well, ya gotta have a favorite before-and-after-the-game hideaway.  Lots of brews on tap.  Lots of jeans and last decade’s t-shirts.  Waitresses with busty attitudes, screaming out your order.  Flashing TV screens on every inch of wall.

If you’re ever in Chattanooga for a UT-Chattanooga football game, careful research (prowling the streets and alleys) led me to the perfect spot for fans and derelicts.  T-Bone’s Sports Cafe.  It’s right across the parking lot from the stadium, so you can crawl to the game and crawl back.

Collect some buddies, and even their wives, if you must.  Shout for a pitcher of your favorite.  Go ahead and check out the menu, but it’s mostly exactly what you brawny, football lovers demand.  Want something a bit different, but true to time honored spirit of cholesterol? Try a barbeque taco.

Go ahead.  Make your cardiologist cringe...

So, how’d your team do?  Win?  Celebrate with another pitcher and a coma inducing cheeseburger. Lose?  Same recipe, but more beer.  Console yourself. There’s always next week, next season, but there’s only one today. Don’t waste it on sobriety.

T-Bone’s Sports Cafe is the place where men can be men and women just have to tolerate it!

Now, go enjoy the game!

Heirloom BBQ - in Hotlanta!

The outside ain't nothin' special, but inside....oh, man!

When you talk about barbeque, you’re talking about old jeans, standing outside, and moving around to keep the smoke outta your face. Anything else is only make believe barbeque for folks who would rather be at Starbucks and think mayo is spicy.

The word itself is strange.  Some end it with que and some with cue.  Some just write it as BBQ or Q.  The word has a dimly lit past, but probably comes from an Indian word meaning 'no sex until the meat is cooked.'  Hence the need for slow cooking. I made that up.  It really means sacred pit of fire.  Which I suppose could also apply to sex.

You’ll find the good stuff all over the southeast United States, from the lapping waters of the Atlanta on the east coast and west through the blazing sun of Texas.  But, the type of barbeque changes. A few geographic hints tell you what to expect.  The further west you go, the more likely you’ll be eatin’ beef and red sauce.  Come east from Texas and you get more and more pork. North Carolina and north, you’ll have pork with vinegar-based sauce.  Cross the line into South Carolina and Georgia, and it’s pork, with a mustard based sauce.

In this day of cultural homogenization, you’ll likely find bits and pieces of each, but it’s rare to find a Q-Joint that does all of it well.

I found one, at 2243 Akers Mill Rd. Atlanta, GA.  It’s just off Hwy 285 and no matter where you are, make the trip!  Heirloom Bar B Que.  This is old-fashioned style Q, which only comes from hours and hours of smoking slabs of meat over a wood fire, with nothing hurried.  When you're doing barbeque, there's no substitute for low temps and lots of time.

At Heirloom, you’ll get smoky Q at it’s very best, whether you’re talkin’ fall-apart beef brisket, or pulled pork.  Have a particular style sauce you like?  They’ve got it.  Best of all, everything’s made in-house. 

Have you noticed a trend in the kinds of food I like?  First off, it’s fresh with a CAPITAL F!  Secondly, the chef (or in this case Chefs) have got to be passionate about what they do and how they do it.

Chef Jiyeon Lee is a South Korean native.  Taylor Cody is a Texan, transplanted.  Both labored through their apprenticeships at a list of places that would grab any knowledgeable foodie’s attention. You can read all about both chefs on the Heirloom web page.

http://heirloommarketbbq.com/Home_Page.php

What makes a great Q joint?  First off, it’s got to be so understated and unpretentious that the food is the only reason, outside of a flat tire, or medical emergency you’d give the place a second thought.  If it’s a chain, forget it. Packaged sauces? Climb back in your car.  But, if you don’t see a barbeque pit and smell the smoke, RUN.

In Heirloom’s case, you pull into a partially overgrown parking lot, and soon figure out you don’t have to go through an old convenience store to get to the food.  It’s next door. Walk in, belly up, and before the screen door flaps closed behind you, a smiling face will take your order.  While you wait on your grub, grab a white, plastic spoon and taste some of the sauces in a rack on the wall behind you. Take your time.  They’re all wonderful.

Heirloom is tiny, with an eclectic interior, and sensationally efficient service.  Grab your paper-wrapped bag of goodies, follow the crowd outside, and stand at an elbow-high table to savor the smoky flavors of a barbeque paradise. The sacred fire pit is right next to you.

I had the brisket and thought I’d been transported to Texas.  Brisket has got to be tender.  These savory slices fell apart.  Another in our party ate succulent pulled pork and said not one word until every scrap of the sandwich disappeared. Our fairest member dug into a half rack of fall-off-the-bone pork ribs.  She didn’t offer to share.

Specials and sides change by the day or the week, or whenever.  I had Korean style sweet potatoes, thinly sliced, fried, doused with a sweet soy sauce, and sprinkled with white sesame seeds.  A perfect accompaniment to the spicy, smoky tang of the brisket.

How do I find these places?  I often wonder that myself.  We’d driven four hours, and passed through on our way to somewhere else.  Just happened to read Heirloom had been named the Best Barbeque in Atlanta.  Never heard of the place. Culinary luck on a grand scale.

Now Heirloom's barbeque fills my dreams and as Ah-nuld says, Ah’ll be bock!