London: Various Pubs, Various Pleasures

I admit I have my favorite London pubs.  It’s not because they know me there, or because women flock when they see me grin and pull out my wallet.  I come to London often, but not that often.  But, I do have a pattern, which sometimes appears to be more like a tangled web.  Have faith. Read on and follow my lead to the jocular sport of tipping a few in some fabulous locations.

And, by the way, if I mention a specific beer, it’s because I truly enjoyed it!  Along the way, you’ll see links to previous blogs I’ve written about specific pubs, which you have no doubt neglected to read for far, far too long.  Buck up, Buttercup! 

I always go to The Hereford Arms for my first pint.  Comfortable.  Old enough to seem proper, but not so new as to shine like freshly polished brass.  Lots of old, dark wood inside.  An eclectic and cheerful crowd that sways from old to young by the hour.     Besides, it’s the first pub I took my parents to.  Their memories sparkle when I open the door.

Hereford Arms

Hereford Arms

The Hereford Arms (Gloucester Road Tube) is a Fuller’s pub, meaning the brewery owns at least a part of it. Fuller’s owns several hundreds across the U.K.  In a Fuller’s house, I lean toward their best seller London Pride.  But, no need to limit yourself.  Other Fuller’s choices, Front Row and Spring Sprinter tantalize the palate as well.  All are 4.5% alcohol or less.  All are brewed in the time-old English method of top fermentation.  Great flavor.  Little fizz.  Little to non-existent head.  Quite a different beverage from their continental or American cousins.  Need something to nosh while you guzzle?  The Hereford Arms cheese platter is superb.

By the way, if Brit beer really interests you (and by that I mean if you walk upright), while in London try taking a tour of Fuller’s Brewery:

http://stroudallover.blogspot.de/2015/01/fuller-brewery-tour-beer-time-gone.html

Besides being low in alcohol, Brit beers are generally smooth as a slide into paradise.  I’ll leave the definition of paradise up to you. The only thing that’ll stop you from having that fourth pint is the size of your stomach.

Queens Arms

About a twenty minute walk from The Hereford Arms is The Queens Arms.  Two things to remember about the Queens Arms:  Sharps Doom Bar beer, my favorite, and superb pub food, from meaty burgers to exotic roasts and steaks.

http://stroudallover.blogspot.de/2013/11/the-queens-arms-quintessential-gastro.html

Suppose I want to wander farther afield?  How do I mine for pubs unknown?  Simple.  I use the book, FancyaPint (Amazon), which lists pubs and their location around each Tube Station.  Maps included.  Also rates pubs from one to five pints, but I’ve found the ratings somewhat misleading, having truly enjoyed several pubs rated only two pints.

Part of my pattern is to also grab a tube map and pick a tube stop where I don’t know the pubs at all.  This time I picked Holborn. The Ship Tavern hasn’t joined the favorites list yet, but it may.  The nearby, Princess Louise is a Victorian pub, reeking with atmosphere. Lots of cut glass room dividers, and even more dark, carved wood.  It’s a Smith Brewery pub.

Ships Tavern

Ships Tavern

Ships Tavern

Princess Louise

Princess Louise

Two more pubs I have to mention:  The Lamb and Flag (Leicester Square), and The Old Bank of England (Temple). 

According to The Survey of London, The Lamb and Flag is first mentioned as The Cooper’s Arms in 1772, and was renamed in 1883. It’s sometimes called The Bucket of Blood because of the bare-knuckle fights that used take place there.  Now days, tourists join locals to keep the place crowded, especially in the evenings, and I haven’t noticed any bare-knuckle brawls, or even loud and angry words.

Lamb and Flag

Bank of England Pub

The Old Bank of England pub, as you would guess, was once a branch of The Bank of England, serving the Royal Courts of Justice, just next door.  It’s a Fullers pub and absolutely spectacular, replete with soaring ceiling, a balustrade that overlooks the bar, and huge, ornate windows.  A must visit, even if you just want a glass of water.

http://stroudallover.blogspot.de/2015/01/two-elegant-london-pubs-old-bank-of.html

Almost next door to Twinning’s Tea Shop and across the street from The Old Bank of England is The George.  You’ll recognize it immediately.  Old, almost black half-timbered façade.  Lengthy bar and a great selection of brews.

And, if you’re in Notting Hill, you must visit The Churchill Arms.  It’s said the Churchill family began to come here a few hundred years ago, and Sir Winston himself visited on occasion.  It’s another Fuller’s pub and I enjoyed a Chiswick Ale (3.5%).

Churchill Arms

http://stroudallover.blogspot.de/2014/02/the-churchill-arms-never-have-so-few.html

The Uxbridge Arms is small pub near Notting Hill Gate.  A very traditional local.  It’s here we had an interesting conversation with the female barkeep and an older gentleman.  Between them, they knew of “sailing ships and sealing wax, of cabbages and kings.”  (Tribute (4.2%) and Sussex Best Bitter (4%)).

Uxbridge Arms

Uxbridge Arms

Near The Uxbridge Arms is The Windsor Castle, a unique spot, with tiny rooms, separated by door that appear to be made for people four feet tall.  Bend down, keep going.  It's worth it!

Windsor Castle Pub

In a week’s stay, I usually hit from twenty to over thirty pubs.  That’s right.  Four to five pubs a day, and sometimes more.  A few years back, my companion and I set a goal of 50 pubs in five days.  We managed over 30, which I do not recommend, and not only because of the possibility of cirrhosis.  After a madcap race or two, downing pints and sprinting to the next watering hole, I’ve learned to take my time, enjoy my pint, and the atmosphere, and chatting with locals.  Far more rewarding, and what’s the rush anyway?  London’s not going anywhere and you can bet your last Pence I’ll be back to slack my thirst.

Queens Arms

A Martini Worthy of James Bond: Dukes Bar, London

Where in London would the fictional James Bond drink a Martini.  Lots of choices.  There’s even a bar in Covent Garden called “The Dirty Martini.”  Perish the thought.  J.B. has class.   So did his creator, Ian Fleming.  Dirty Martini?  Chocolate Martini?  Piffle and twaddle!

I know exactly where Fleming went to relax, chat with pals and slake his thirst:  Dukes Bar at the Dukes Hotel.  I’m not sure many people know all that much about Fleming himself, certainly not as much as they know about his creation.

To say Fleming lived a life of adventure is to grossly understate the case.  Womanizer, booted from this school and that, including the Royal Military Academy at Sandhurst.   Studied abroad briefly at the Universities of Munich and Geneva.  Stockbroker: failure.  Banker: failure.  Applied for the Foreign Office:  Couldn’t pass the exam. Royal Navy Intelligence Officer: great success.  Had multitudinous affairs, including with the woman he later married, whom was at the time married to another.

The first Bond book, Casino Royale was published in 1952 and the rest is a story of more affairs and even more success as a writer.  Fleming came from a wealthy family (Banking) and it’s no wonder he drank in the small, but elegant bar at Dukes Hotel, London.  It’s said that in Dukes Bar, he coined the phrase “Shaken not stirred.”

Although he frequently was thought of by the intelligentsia, as his wife said, “A writer of cheap pornography,” in 2008 The Times ranked him as 14^th on a list of the fifty greatest British writers since 1945.  His lack of a writer’s prestige didn’t seem to bother him:  “I’m not in the Shakespeare stakes.  I have no ambition.”

On to James Bond’s Martini, as taken from the pages of Casino Royale:

"A dry martini," [Bond] said. "One. In a deep champagne goblet."

"Oui, monsieur."

"Just a moment. Three measures of Gordon's, one of vodka, half a measure of Kina Lillet. Shake it very well until it's ice-cold, then add a large thin slice of lemon peel. Got it?"

"Certainly, monsieur." The barman seemed pleased with the idea.

"Gosh, that's certainly a drink," said Leiter.

Bond laughed. "When I'm...er...concentrating," he explained, "I never have more than one drink before dinner. But I do like that one to be large and very strong and very cold and very well-made. I hate small portions of anything, particularly when they taste bad. This drink's my own invention. I'm going to patent it when I can think of a good name."

As we all remember, James also drinks regular gin and vermouth Martinis, as well as vodka Martinis.  But, the Vesper Martini is the one most remembered.

So, of course, being in London and ever so slightly above the drinking age, I had to visit Dukes Bar, settle into a leather armchair and have a debonair, Italian barman in a white dinner jacket, roll a cart to my table and build me an Ian Fleming Vesper Martini. I was stirred, not shaken by the experience.

Is it the same recipe as written by Ian Fleming in Casino Royale?  Close, but not quite.

The nibbles in Dukes are superb!

In the first place, the Dukes version is neither shaken nor stirred.  The glass, the gin, and the vodka are frozen for 24 hours.  No ice is used. 

3 Measures of Fortnum & Mason’s No. 3 Gin (Bond favors Gordon’s or Plymouth gin)

1 Measure of Potocki Polish Vodka

½ Measure of Lillet Blanc  (a French aperitif, similar to vermouth, but a touch sweeter and more flavorful.  It’s no longer labeled as Kina Lillet)

2 drops bitters

A long, thick twist of orange peel

Because no ice is used, the drink is not diluted, giving this concoction the power of the clean-up hitter for the 1927 New York Yankees.  In fact, Dukes places a limit of two Martinis per customer.

Good reason for that.  After just one, I found myself singing Rule Britannia, marching through Mayfair, and needing a guide dog to get me back to my hotel.  Unfortunately, it was not Vesper, the Bond Girl doing the leading.

So how do you make this concoction?

Put the drops of bitters in the frozen glass, add the Lillet, then the gin, and finally the vodka.  Carve off a healthy swath of orange peel, give it a twist and slip it into the glass.  Presto, you will be irresistible to women, lose all fear of men with guns, and remain calm, even when walking on narrow planks several hundred feet in the air.   I really like this drink! 

Of course, these magic personality enhancements don’t come cheap.  $27 per glass at today’s exchange rates.  Who cares?  M will always cough up a few more quid.

But, that’s not the end of the story.  Naturally, back home, I made a glass for my girlfriend (who insists on calling herself my wife) and one for me.  But, not having a bar stock worthy of Dukes Hotel, I made a few changes.

Liquors and glasses straight from the freezer!

2 Parts Dutch gin, 35% alcohol

1 Part cheap vodka, 40% alcohol

½ Part Lillet Blanc (given the popularity of Jimmy Bond, it should be available locally)

1 Large curl of orange peel

Didn’t have any bitters handy and given my demanding thirst, I didn’t race to the store.

Bottom Line…or should that be Bottle Line?  Excellent!  And just as it was at Dukes, one was enough.

When we arrived, the bar was almost empty.  That soon changed!

From London: Signs of the Times Part 2

A glance at the never-ending saga of life in London, and around the world.  Time to focus on things that matter.  By the way, these are real bits and pieces from the pages of The Times:

Letters to the Editor:

“Should the statue of Sir Nigel keep its duck?”  No telling how many times I’ve tossed and turned over this.

“Sir, having grown up in Watton at Stone, the Herefordshire village where Sir Nigel Gresley lived, I was delighted at the prospect of seeing his statue at King’s Cross.  Mallards still prosper on the river Beane that ran through his garden and the village. The mallard humanitises the statue somehow.  Without it, the statue loses its appeal to all but steam railway buffs…”

Humanitises?  It’s a statue of a duck for god’s sake, next to a statue of a man.  And what’s the writer got against railway buffs?  I mean, really!

Another reader clarifies the question:  “In 1936, Germany took the railway steam speed world record with a 124.5 mph run…those onboard included Heinrich Himmler and Reinhard Heydrich…Two years later, on July 3, a Gresley locomotive, named after…a pond duck, LINER No. 4468 Mallard, snatched away that speed record and kept it forever. That is so wonderfully British.”

Yes, take that, you Nazi bastards!  Leave it to the British to concentrate on the important things!  Coal for the boiler!  Stiff breeze in the face!  Raise a statue of a man and a duck!

Another reader wrote to say, forget Sir Nigel’s statue and the duck. How about all the pheasants being killed on the motorways????  Murder most fowl!

On the International Front:

“Prostitutes in Tajikistan are being accused of hiding their faces behind Islamic veils to win well-off clients…While sex workers in many other countries expose more flesh to attract attention…(the Tajik prostitutes) earned more money by wearing veils to make them more attractive to potential customers.”   

These customers were either extremely shy or wanted to be able to say to the judge, “I have no idea who that woman is.”

Keep that burka on, Babe! I ain’t here to kiss you. 

On to Who Knew?

“Power posing helps confidence, but does not boost hormones.”  I’m shocked! 

“Power posing, such as pressing the hands on the hips, or leaning back with arms crossed behind the head, does not actually work, researchers suggested.  Standing or sitting in a certain way was believed to raise testosterone levels and lower cortisol, the stress hormone.”

Believed by whom, men hooked on male enhancement pills?  Wives who think their husbands love them more than beer?

Researchers suggested?  Cowards!  Wave the bullshit flag and euthanize the scurvy dogs.

Back to London:

“Peril of London’s Exploding Streets”

“Firefighters were still tackling an underground blaze last night more than 24 hours after it broke out in a service tunnel…Thousands lost power….Richard Beddoe, Westminster City Council’s cabinet member for city management, says there has been a worrying trend of pavements exploding in London.”

A worrying trend?  Now you’re got my attention! On a given day, exactly how many London streets explode?  What are the worst exploding street months?  Are exploding streets seasonal?  Any connection between exploding streets and stumbling drunks?  God, I hope not.

I suspect other cabinet members are busy working on these trends:  Socks that unravel, alcohol and amnesia, projectile vomiting, loss of sexual function caused by swinging toilet doors, squeaky shoe irritation.

A Peek at the wacky world known as France:

“Promoting excessive skinniness will become a criminal offence in France under a law approved by parliament yesterday to combat ‘thinspiration’ sites on the internet.”

Offenders will be force-fed and their livers harvested for foie gras.

I suspect the honorable member from Estomac-sur-le Ceinture (stomach over the belt) introduced this measure.

From London: Signs of The Times

Yes, yes, in the British newspapers, there’s plenty of blather about the upcoming election in Britain and how the stock market and British Pound Sterling is sinking like a lead duck.  Fine.  Now let’s get to some news you can really use.  These are actual stories.

From the Times’ Science Correspondent:

“Canadian academics now believe that they have found the best advice for getting through these miserable bottlenecks.”  (job interviews)  “Talk quickly.”  The researchers didn’t get their info from real interviews, but instead relied on ‘mock’ interviews, with an emphasis on nervous tics, …”such as fiddling with their hair, adjusting their clothing, furrowing their brows, and avoiding eye contact…The most universal indicator of nerves, however, was speaking slowly.”

I’djustliketosayrightnowthattheconclusionsseemtoberightinlinewithcommonsense.

Inthecaseoflearningtospeakasrapidlyasaradioannouncerfillingyouinonthefineprint, I also suggest tapping your foot, while leaning across the desk and making strong enough eye contact to cause the interviewer fear for his life.

Technology Correspondent:

“Internet shopping has turned the drudge of the weekly grocery run into a bit of mouse clicking and keyboard tapping.  Soon though we may simply have to press a nearby button when we’re running low on toothpaste or lavatory paper.”

Don’t you just love English as the Brits speak it?  Lavatory paper!  How cute.

The article goes on to point out Amazon has designed internet-connected buttons, called Dash Buttons, you can place anywhere in the house.  You can literally order things at the press of a button.   They’re also child proof.  Repeatedly pushing the button doesn’t bring you an unlimited supply of Milk Duds.

These Dash Buttons will certainly have their uses.  “I need more condoms and I need ‘em right now!”   You can even set the buttons to automatically reorder periodically.  “Dash Button, I’ll need a pint of whiskey and a case of beer a day.  No, I am not a teenager using his parents’ Dash Button.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but you’ll have to speak more slowly.”

Another torrid tale from The Times:

“Divorce papers reveal Chaplin’s ‘revolting’ sex demands of bride.”  This may be old news since Charlie Chaplin and his teenage bride are both worm food, but what the hell, I’m up for a little titillation from the dead.  I quickly plunge into the ‘meat’ of the story, which goes on to give the details:  “The 50 page document includes claims that the English actor made “revolting, degrading, and offensive” demands of his teenage bride.  He also forced her to perform acts that were illegal in California in the 1920s, which he told her he had performed with “five prominent moving picture women” before their marriage.”

Well, if that doesn’t beat all!  Those divorce papers really agitated my libido!  Doing things with “moving picture women?”  My god, is nothing sacred?  That cad!

Dash Button, my child bride and I would like to reorder the inner-tube thickness condoms.

The Girl On the Train: A hell of a plot, or just plain hell...

Just finished reading The Girl on the Train, by Paula Hawkins.  A frenzy of a read, written in the first person, but with a chorus of voices and constantly changing array of characters.  Rapid-fire divergences in who the hell is speaking may confuse you at first, but read on.  All will become manageably coherent.  And, you’ll soon be in joyful celebration that someone other than you owns these nightmarish lives. Let’s start with Rachel, the main voice. 

Rachel’s awash in a tsunami of angst.  She’s an overweight, divorced drunk, whose newly remarried husband, his new wife, and their new child live down the block in Rachel’s old home.  Rachel also lost her job some months ago, but travels by train to London everyday, just to keep up appearances, and keep her suspicious landlord/roommate at bay.  In short, Rachel’s angst surpasses waking up to find you had unprotected sex with a male stripper in a leper colony and you’re carrying his child.

Can it get worse and more problematic?  With this collection of dysfunctional misfits? Most assuredly. Hey, the book is a murder mystery.  Maybe.  Perhaps it’s just as delusional as Rachel, whose blackouts are darker than the streets of London at the height of the Blitz.  Perhaps no one was murdered, but everyone is guilty of something.  In this book, guilt runs like a pride of lions through a herd of gazelles.

Preposterous plot?  Yes.  So what keeps the book going?  Scintillating  writing.  Morbid curiosity.  Characters that sparkle like broken glass in a sewer.

Rachel lives in an undistinguished house, in row of undistinguished houses, in a small, nondescript village on the outskirts of London.  The houses hide a lot of secrets, but given the pathetic lives of the inhabitants, I find myself asking, “Do I really want to know?”  Oh, hell yes!  I’m as perverse as any other voyeur, with time to spare, a gin & tonic in my grubby hand, and a nearby train rattling my shabby windows.

In this hub of unwashed hypocrisy, husbands screw around with any skirt that stands still, or doesn’t move fast enough.  Wives are beautiful (except for Rachel) harridans who wouldn’t know happiness if it blooded their noses…or in that case, maybe they would.

The plot is a tangled web of lies and unforgiving hate, but nevertheless, you’ll be driven crazy until you know the truth.  In this case, the truth may not set you free, but it may make you want to immediately do something to pull yourself out of this tortured fug.  Gargle with lye.  Chug a pint of whiskey.  Euthanize a few dogs.  Sit on a curb with homeless people and explain why you’re unhappy.

                 A great read if you’re strong of heart.  Don’t say I didn’t warn you.