After checking whether we had enough left in the account for tea after that pint of Pride, we set off toward Hyde Park.
A 22 year old is never really going to pick a Gordon Ramsay restaurant, and there’s a lack of Northern Quarter style curry caffs in West London, which is why I despair over the place (or is it the rugger fans that ruin it ?).
So, for the first time EVER, thank goodness for upmarket Fuller’s pubs like the Victoria.
It must be 9 years since I last visited, during the Olympics when it was a riot of flags and dodgy accents. Mrs RM did a stint working at Eastbourne Terrace next to Paddington so probably knows it better than I do.
It seems to have been built solely to grace the cover of a CAMRA guide to Heritage pubs.
Sometimes. you say it best when you say nothing at all, and that’s the last time Ronan Keating (or was it Anthrax ?) get quoted in this blog.
Blimey, it’s gorgeous. Still.
That would matter not a jot it it had no atmosphere, but there was a mixed crowd of tourists, locals and drunks (no comment), and the staff were as cheery as you’re ever going to get in central-ish London.
Even James noted the age range, someone born in every decade since the 1940s. Midriff and cricket club ties ahoy !
Foolishly, I went for the ESB, just like BRAPA does in London, and it was cool, rich and marvellous (NBSS 4).
Yes, a 4 ! In London !
We had something called “bar snacks“, which were actually more substantial and less fussy than expected. The objects that look like squid are squid.
James kept up his record of decent keg craft with a hazy Wild Beer, but 3 halves over 90 minutes weren’t going to turn him into a crazed drunk who tried on the famous wellingtons you find if you take a wrong turn on the way to the Gents.