October 2026. Thaxted. Essex.
And finally in Thaxted, time for tea, after admiring the almshouses one last time.
I’d walked the bounds, hoping one of these half-timbered beauties had a Chinese menu pinned to the wall,
but intensive investigation found “only” an Indian restaurant, so Thaxted can’t be considered a real town.
It also loses a half mark for implementing its own independent punishment against the innocents of Manchester City by denying it a place in this window display.
I almost succumbed to the Family Kebab & Pizza van seemingly permanently parked next to The Star, the other perennial GBG entry till it scrapped cask last year.
The Star has a lot of life, much of it scrawled on the ceiling, but not a lot of beer choice. And you know my views on choice.
I settled for Mr Clarkson’s Session Lager from Diddly Squat Farm, what Pub Curmudgeon would call a distress purchase, and settled into the large sofa by the fire in the absence of anything smaller.
Two locals then gave me the Spanish Inquisition about my beer choice, but failed to answer my own enquiries about the lack of crispy beef and Singapore rice (they didn’t seem as troubled as I was).
An interesting pub, and I mean that sincerely.
My curry choice was interesting, too.
Looking back at their menu, packed with interesting dishes called Maser Jhol and Shatkora, I wonder how I ended up with Chicken Pasanda, the curry for folk who find Korma too strong.
Oh yes, it was Queen Victoria’s favourite. Makes total sense now.
