I returned home from Cornwall to
the loving embrace of my family 4 days of washing, cleaning and laundry.
Sunday off, then back to the hard yards of saving pubs and creating a huge tax burden for my children.
Scarily, a dozen times for me, including the numerous coffees in Spoons.
Yes, it’s half price grub time, and another chance to take Dad away from the Women’s underwater golf or whatever Sky puts on his TV these days.
Let’s go to the Boot in Histon; folk rave about that.
Yes, “Pub Brasserie“. I’m going posh. But while with beer you get better value from going cheap, with the half-price food offer it pays to go upmarket. Even my 19 year old knows that 13 days of 50p burgers from McDonalds is a false economy.
The Boot was doing well; only space outside.
Don’t worry, we weren’t missing a bench-seated classic interior.
The bloke in charge of seating us, who if I was French I would call the maître d’, was lovely with my Dad, making an assessment that the rain would hold till 12:50, which gave us 49 minutes to choose, order and consume.
“We’re quick eaters” I said, marking us out as the Fenland peasants we are.
Dad is a good judge of clouds, too, but they became increasingly ominous as we looked at the menu that served as a placemat, Hamburg style.
Pan fried Bass (not that Bass) and Steak Frites, easy choice.
“And to drink ?”
“What real ales do you have, please ?” Ugh, I’m going all Beer Twitter.
“What’s on handpump ? Um, what beers do you have ?“
“Oh. We have lagers and bitters*. The bitters are Tribute, Doo..”
“Doom Bar will do“. Could have had Landlord if I wasn’t so impatient.
It was great food. The steak was only 0.5 below the steak and chips on every street corner in Buenos Aires, though I’ll not pretend that Doom Bar is a substitute for a half bottle of Malbec; even a dry, foamy NBSS 3+ one.
The “bants” was terrifying, and almost entirely about Gîtes and house prices and furlough. We could have been in Richmond.
On the table next to us, a smart-shirted man chose the steak and ale pie.
“It comes with a complimentary third of Tribute, Sir”
“Oh no, I couldn’t possibly drink a third of beer” he really said.
Dad decided he’d wait for a more substantial pudding at Oakington Garden Centre’s cafe, which was also doing a Rishi.
He’s living a little in his 86th year.