Another tricky post, as I find myself having to praise That Leeds, something an (honorary) Mancunian hates to do almost as much as taking a coach trip round Anfield.
I was there the other Sunday to see Phosphorescent at the Brudenell, enjoying the £35 rates you get at Accor hotels before the suits and tourists arrive on Monday. Pains me to say it, but it’s a wonderful town to amble around on a weekend.
I shan’t tell you where I park for free, but I pass this place on the way into town.
I’ll have to go in the Adelphi soon and review the
toilets Doom Bar for you.
Instead I walked into The Calls.
I thought I’d found a rare Leeds pub unmarked on WhatPub to tell Richard about,
but apparently it’s not a Moorish (as opposed to morish) craft lager bar.
Ah, Slocken. It’s Yorkshire for “pre-emptive tick”. I missed this place when Dick and Dave visited in the summer as I was fetching underpants from Jack Lane.
I loved this place, and you’ll know how sniffy I can be about the new wave of beer bars. The age range was so wide, you could have been in a Wetherspoons, and there’s no higher compliment for a Leeds bar.
At the bar, Old Boys were asking Young Boys (not from Bern) to taste their beer. Seemingly uninvited. It was all very BRAPA.
I can see why that Coldwell fella, stuck on OBB and Doom Bar out in the sticks, loves this place.
And cask was two quid (£2, Americans), to get shot of it before closing on Monday. Perhaps that was what was attracting the proper Yorkies in.
Anyway, the Nomadic Strider was flying out, as people these days tend to say when they’re selling a pint an hour, and was cool and chewy (NBSS 3.5+).
Yes, it was so busy at 6pm I was stuck at the bar, dodging the bloke delivering gig flyers. I stuck a copy of Ullage over his ad for a Mumford & Sons tribute band (small fib).
It was so trendy they were playing “Dreams” by The Mac. It’s a dream of a pub, as is the one below, whose charms I resisted on this dining occasion.