retiredmartin

February 2025. York.

Mrs RM was following the “Secret York” guide generated By ChatGPT. I’m not sure “Walk the Walls” really qualifies as a local’s secret, even if you are starting from the southern side at Fishergate Bar.

Five minutes of Mrs RM shouting “You’re too close to the edge !” as if I was six, not sixty, a stop to admire the fontage,

and we were at the Phoenix.

“That’s a famous pub, too” I tell Mrs RM, apropos of nothing.

“We’d better pop in then” she says, introducing a need for a toilet break that’s not mentioned on her ChatGPT route. AI robots don’t need loo breaks.

Ooh look, more John Smiths. York used to have Proper Beer, once.

I recall the Phoenix emerging from the mire like an, um, Phoenix some years back, and sure enough it’s heaving with regulars and tourists on a Sunday afternoon.

Mrs RM asks a kindly gent if we can perch on his table.

Well, would you say “NO” to Mrs RM. I’ve never been that brave.

As with the Golden Ball, all the trade is in pints, whether male or female, just as the Goddess Ninkasi intended.

We said we’d have halves, but shared a pint of Tindall Solar Flare and a soda water because beer tastes better in pint glasses.

The beer was solidly presented NBSS 3 stuff, but the Phoenix is a 5.

All human life was here. And a mystery coach party from Ashton-under-Lyme. Our table sharer was one of the folk on this mystery coach, a jolly chap who would have been happy if the trip got no further than the public bar of the Phoenix.

Bursting with life, whether canine or ladies enjoying a “cheeky little half”,

it suddenly embodied all those characteristics of an English pub that the Southworth clan embrace when they visit from America, particularly when an Old Gent was invited to join our table with his Americano,

and chatted in the doorway about the social benefits of pubs, whether you’re drinking cask or coke or coffee.