I guess you left me in Rotherham; you usually do. If you want to know where Rotherham is, look on a map.
But I’m nothing if not contrary (shocked ?) and just fancied the New York Tavern over the road. It’s a bit like being in Manchester and doing the Lower Turks Head rather than the Hare & Hounds, I guess.
A much simpler, less ornate affair than Cutlers, but as good a Proper Pub as you’ll get in Rotherham these days.
It’s named, as Si will know, after the New York Yankees who play their rounders games down by the river.
I tipped up at the golden hour, just after 4pm, and was delighted to find the optimum number of people (10) and optimum average age (42.6).
Two folk were looking out of the window at nothing whatsoever, as central Rotherham was dead, in sharp contrast to the dual carriageways to the south.
There really is nothing to beat sitting in a simple pub with complete strangers staring into space, particularly when the Chantry “Millers” is £2.60 and superb.
Two Old Boys get Frank Zappa and George Michael mixed-up, an easy mistake to make despite it coming through on a sound system better than mine (it WAS George), and then the playlist goes distinctly Matthew Lawrenson;
The landlord is a class act, telling people to sit down firmly but politely, and pulling more beers than I’ve seen shifted anywhere since the Heaventeenth.
Two blokes who I suspect to be tickers have a pint of Pale I hadn’t even noticed as it was hidden round the side.
I’ve only got £3.40 in change; can I afford a pint (£2.60, remember) and crisps ?
“How much are crisps, mate ?”
“Got anything for eighty pence ?”
So he gets a £20 note.
It’s the sort of unsentimental exchange in pubs that I love, and as the sun streams though and “Ain’t No Sunshine” kicks in, there’s nowhere I’d rather be.
Not even the hidden micropub in the Minster.