The last post from “New Bradford”, and the sort of pub that makes you want to book an Ibis Budget room for an immediate return trip.
A short hop uphill (by Cambridge standards) to the Peacock Bar, with stops to search
through McDonalds dustbins reflect on the majesty of Bradford architecture.
The Peacock looks a bit like a one-word Chorlton bar, but in Chorlton you don’t get the intoxicating smell of curry wafting into the street.
I’d have popped in even if it wasn’t a new GBG tick. You can’t come to Bradford and not have curry, even for breakfast.
Shame about the White Rose flag; clearly playing up to that Coldwell bloke.
“That’s a lovely smell” I said.
“Me aftershave, that is” said our pubman.
Just to annoy Richard, I went with the Farmers.
And just to be contrary, I had the vegetable samosas.
They were cooked from scratch, I’ll tell you that much. I had 15 minutes watching a couple of Londoners attempt to finish their Jalfrezi.
They were friendly Londoners, but clearly crossing the M25 and entering the North was a significant achievement. Note the giant goldfish gin bowls; perhaps they were off to Morecambe next.
The other customers were a couple of Glaswegians, so there was certainly a multi-cultural feel. As always, no-one understood a word I said.
That’s all I want from a pub. Folks from different backgrounds chatting rubbish with each other, cool drinkable beer, and tables with chairs. And a bit of weirdness.
Oh, and a chaotic soundtrack that boiled down to Prince vs the Space Invaders machine in the corner. Chaotic but wonderful.
As was the plate of steaming samosas.
The barman was chatty and entertaining, clearly delighted his array of Asian keg had won the Peacock a Beer Guide place.
Another one for the ever-expanding Bradford Pub Crawl List.
And Refresh, a loo stop on the way back to the Interchange was a proper café. £1.80 for the year’s hottest coffee.
Worth travelling from Chicago and Minneapolis for, let alone Cambridge.