Enough about Carlsberg in Southwold, here’s one of my Copenhagen highlights, and possibly the Carlsberg/Tuborg flagship.
“Only” Tuborg on, so we gave Tivoli beer a miss. For now.
I’d just bought the family huge pizzas slices from the atrocity that is a Danish 7-Eleven, and they owed me ten minutes in the pub. Even a pub that didn’t stretch to smoothies.
Scott Campbell had flagged this as a “must visit”, which is a bit of an understatement. My only regret is that I visited in laste afternon rather than 7am, a much more civilised time to start the drinking day (I’m joking, Mum).
A random Rate Beer reviewer says;
“Small smokey and noisy pub with all kinds of people drinking and chatting. You don’t go here to experience good beer. Perhaps some other reasons I don’t know.”
Sounds like my sort of place, though not perhaps Mrs RM’s choice. She sat outside and waited for beer.
I’ll confess I felt I was in pub heaven as soon as I entered. The mix of drinkers here sets it apart from the crafty places in Norrebro I was about to encounter, but really it was a sense of joy that came across, a hard thing to explain. The riot of colour came as a shock after the Lord Nelson and the “cave pub“.
The lady in charge was cheery and patient, even explaining that Copenhagen is actually pronounced Copenhagen. Why she told me, I forget.
Having chosen, correctly, the house beer (from Thisted Bryghus), I was given a collector card. Pub tourists love collector cards. The ceiling is “decorated” with photos of regulars who have completed the card. I wish I could join their ranks.
The seating is magnificent, the soundtrack stuck in 1984. A run of “Dancing Queen“, “Girls just want to have fun” and “Living next door to Alice” made perfect sense.
Interestingly, the ash trays on tables suggested the pub had one of the Danish smoking exemptions for food-free boozers, but I didn’t see any smoke.
Joining Mrs RM outside with her hefty Carlsberg IPA for a perfect view of the back of the station, I’ll confess this was a magical 20 minutes, even when my own beer started getting nicked.
As is my wont, I searched for an equivalent English pub, and struggled. The railway Taps have a more transient customer base, as well as a beerier obsession. The Café Express outside Nuremberg Bahnhof perhaps comes closest.
Great toilets too.
We’d gone ten yards when a local ran towards us waving Mrs RM’s mobile phone at us. It’s a sign of appreciation to leave personal effects in pubs, apparently.
We left with a song in our hearts, the one from “The Bridge”, I think.