Old school with old friends - The George, London Bridge

Apparently bitter and ales are very good for colds. This is according to the Rock Star, who although not a medical man, is the son of one and a highly seasoned drinker so in many ways perfectly qualified to comment. I bore that in mind as the Northerner and I, cold ridden and a tad hungover, headed to the tourist trap that is the George in Borough High Street near London Bridge, and amongst other things, prides itself in its collection of bitters et al.

We were there to meet Little Boots (not the pop star, but my friend who has the smallest feet I've ever seen on an adult) and her hubby the Greek God who were over from Australia for a work trip. I hadn't been to the George before but everyone I know seems to have and talks it up big time. And now that I've been there I'm not sure why that is the case.

The George has all the trappings of Ye Olde English pub. A 17th century coach house that is full of nooks and crannies, the place does have character. Traditional (not gastro) pub grub, a beer garden and an impressive range of beers seems to keep the punters happy. They even serve wine in those small bottles that I thought you only got on planes.

Yet it pales in comparison with the delightful pubs of Borough Market - the Rake et al - and it lacks the views of its fellow tourist traps overlooking the Thames.

That's not to say that we didn't have a good time. Little Boots and the Greek God seemed intent on drinking their way through their jetlag - and doing a good job of it might I add. But given that the George is hardly likely to suffer through any criticism by me, I'll mark it down as one for experience. Old school in every sense of the word.

Poetic Justice - The Water Poet, Shoreditch

There are three things which I tend to dislike in a pub. In no particular order they are; venues with an all male / suited clientele; Fosters (or a similarly cheap lager) on tap; and a large Sky Sports screen. Lad pubs in every sense. Each of these elements on their own is sometimes tolerable, but two or even worse all three condemns it to a place that shall not enjoy my patronage. And I’m sure you can appreciate the impact of that protest on the brewery industry.
My first impression of the Water Poet near Spitalfields market was on a visit with Heavy D and the Rock Star and it struck us that it was a beautiful old fashioned East End boozer whose owners had foolishly taken down the Lad pub route. Sky sports screen, wall to wall ‘suits’ and Stella on tap. Although Heavy seemed to like it. I went back again a few weeks later and still, unable to get past the throngs of lager swilling bankers in the front bar, left with the same impression. Why does the City insist on ruining potentially great venues?
However I am nothing if not persistent, and after a pleasant afternoon of shopping around Brick Lane with the Northerner I decided to give it one more try, albeit in a weekend. And thank goodness I did. In the weekend the place is transformed into the scruffy cool Bohemian type pub that is hidden beneath during the week.
The interior which is all maroon and leather with tatty and restored pieces of furniture has several spacious rooms consisting of the front bar, lounge bar, pool room and a private side room. While the garden bar, which is probably the most spacious within the confines of the City square mile, is all urban industrial in style yet relaxing in ambience. Plus it is a suntrap, which is what you want in any garden bar. Apparently the do a superb Sunday lunch but we were too late to try the food thing. Nevertheless a good bottle of NZ Pinot Noir and a nice bit of people watching seemed to keep any hunger pangs at bay.
So I stand corrected and concede that the Water Poet is more then worthy of a visit, and may even become something of a regular on my pub circuit. But I would wait until the City boys have moved on.

Rakish charm - The Rake, Borough Market

Good things, according to a hackneyed old phrase, come in small packages. A view which might be applied to both my destination and my companion on a sunny Friday evening in London town; although I suspect the latter aka the Rock Star, might be bemused by the description. However the venue, The Rake in Borough Market has no such qualms and what a nice little find it turned out to be.
Although I can hardly claim it to be a 'find'. After all the Rake in its relatively short reinvention as beer bar extraordinaire has picked up a host of awards, including the Class Bar Awards 'Best Beer Experience' and the Time Out Best Bar Award. In fact I've been reading about it for a few years now and was more then a tad embarrassed after having made several half-hearted attempts to find it and wondering if in fact it had been closed, only to find it a mere 20 metres away from Black and Blue. A place I've frequented only about 20 times over the last year. Nevermind, find it we did and settled into sampling the wares and to find out what all the fuss is.
Well the fuss is justified. First and foremost it has something in the vicinity of over 100 beers, with a healthy selection of wine and ciders to boot. And as per the photo below, there is some seriously good beer going. The Rock Star and I hit a couple of pints of Veltin which pulled off the neat trick of getting us very drunk, very quickly while still tasting good. Remarkable. Then of course is its Borough Market location, which has become a social destination in its own right over the last two years. However unlike its fellow market bars, the Rake is a sun trap that is also relatively free of traffic and noise - gold dust in these parts. And finally the service and the ambience oozes charm and is very efficient that makes it relaxing and enjoyable. Which is what you are after in a pub. Finally to the issue of size, which seems to be a regular cause for complaint on the other blogsites I've read about this pub. It is small but they do serve you quickly. I'm sure it gets busy from time to time, but thats just pubs in London right. Small with rakish charm. I think that about captures it.

Stairway to Food Heaven - Upstairs Restaurant, Brixton

In Auckland in the eighties and nineties there used to be a nightclub called Staircase. And if memory serves me correctly it was a terrible place – bad music, bad look, bad entertainment. However it did have three claims to fame. First it was Auckland's most famously gay club. Not much competition at the time, but this is NZ we're talking about. Second it was occasionally hosted by a one-legged 50's rock n roller who did a mean piano. And third, it played a part in launching the career of a bona fide celebrity in Russell Crowe, or Russ le Roq as he was known then. Each of these elements on their own sit at odds with the 80's Auckland of my nostalgia, and all of them combined make the Staircase seem rather out of place in the capital of Polynesia.
Many years on finds me segue waying rather awkwardly into somewhere equally out of context with its surroundings but which also makes a virtue of its stairs - the underwhelmingly named Upstairs Restaurant in Brixton. Fine French cuisine doesn’t just sit at odds with Afro-Caribbean city, it’s a complete anomaly. Nevertheless Brixton has moved on a shade from its drug fuelled clubbing scene of yesteryear (just a shade mind you) and Upstairs has been around since 2005, so maybe it was time to give the place a chance.
And that we did last week when an erstwhile crew of the Northerner, the Rock Star and his other half Betty Boo for a cheeky champers and dinner date. Upstairs resides ‘speakeasy’ style, in a converted town house just off Acre Lane, and the contrast with the street and its surroundings is dramatic. Heading up the stairs you are greeted by a groovy little bar, before ascending once more into the intimate, romantic space that works as its dining room.
Taking in the minimalist set menu (2 courses for £22, 3 courses for £26) three of us settled on the grilled goats cheese and summer vegetable starters, while the Rock Star devoured a divine looking (and tasting apparently) veal and foie gras burger. For the mains we covered all bases, with Betty Boo taking in the Pea and Girolle risotto, the Northerner and the Rock Star choosing the Sea Bream and Sauce Viere, while yours truly settled on the Duck Breast with Cocotte potatoes (whatever that means). Having a sneaky sample of all of the mains I can say that the presentation, portions and most importantly flavours were superb. My duck was the best I’ve had outside of France for a long time, and the fact that we were all equally reluctant to share our food indicates how good it was. And how greedy we are.
Desserts always had a hard act to follow and my choice of Chocolate and Ginger crème brulee was even too rich for a chocolate fanatic like me. However the Vanilla Panacotta was light fluffy and flavoursome while the Summer Pudding certainly looked good – which was as close as anyone was prepared to let me get.
We washed it down with two bottles of French red wine, which the Rock Star chose so I’ll blame him for any inconsistency. Nevertheless they were pretty good nick, and noone wept when we receive the bill, so I’ll assume fairly priced.
Upstairs is a wonderful little place to eat, certainly better then anything neighbouring Clapham has to offer and not as clichéd as other French style bistros in the SW / SE corner of London. And maybe I was wrong to suggest it sits at odds with its location, and perhaps it enhances and complements the surroundings. Whatever - no Russell Crowe no drug-fuelled clubbers (that I noticed) just great food, atmosphere and service. In Brixton even - who would have thought.

Watching the Apprentice

The Rock Star’s return from a two-week sabbatical down under was as good a reason as any to head out for drinks. Friday night lights saw us going back to the Golden Heart, the unassuming little boozer that is a mecca for East London hipsters. And us of course. Friday night hummed as fashionable young things influenced by but clearly not witness to the New Romantic movement of the 80’s, worked themselves into a collective frenzy as wine, lagers and vodka flowed with abandon. One of the groups of pretty young things near us even honoured that time-old tactic of producing a litre bottle of vodka from her bag to top up her gang’s OJ’s and tonics. Quality. The Rock Star and I unintentionally grabbed the attention of the local junkies, who seemed attracted by the fact that we were paying for our own drinks and therefore clearly in the money. After humouring them for five or so minutes whilst trying to work out exactly what they were on (I thought Heroin, the Rock Star thought Crack – like we’d actually be able to tell the difference) we ushered them on their way and headed inside. One of them actually pointed out that I dressed / looked like one of the Blues Brothers. Worse still I think she meant the short fat one.
The Northerner showed up and after a couple more drinks, her and I ambled on down to the Hoxton Apprentice in Hoxton Square. Set in a Grade 2 listed Victorian primary school building the Apprentice is a charitable restaurant set up to help the long term unemployed back into work. A predecessor to the Jamie Oliver gig, it is not as flashy and pretentious as Fifteen, albeit equally as well-intentioned. Given the setup the food can be mixed, and the cocktails a tad on the ‘sweet’ side. Nevertheless as ever our school dinner on the night was pretty damned fine, and a cracking bottle (or was it two?) of Pinotage more then compensated for any inconsistencies in the menu. It certainly made assembling flat-pack furniture the following morning rather difficult.
I’m not normally one to promote ‘good cause’ entertainment ventures, but one I would support is the Hoxton Apprentice. Superb location, warm service, and in the case of the Northerner’s main and my dessert, some very good dishes on the menu. And if you want to carry on drinking there are plenty more venues dotted around the Square a mere stumble away, some of which will no doubt feature in this blog at a later date.

Lord Aberconway, Liverpool St Station

So, the plan was for me to spend last night in a corporate box at the O2 Arena, dancing around to Tina Turner while River Deep and Mountain high in wine and canapes. Sadly Tina took ill with the flu, which given her tender years is probably acceptable.
How I made that leap from corporate entertainment heaven to the Lord Aberconway Pub next to Liverpool Street station is a mystery that I'm still coming to terms with. Nevertheless the pub is not without some merits which I thought I should pass on.

Given the dearth of decent drinking or eating establishments within a short distance of the station, the Lord Aberconway stacks up okay. Drinks are cheap but decent - good house wines, and ales and bitters for the beer bores. One of which is the Rock Star who sadly declared himself unavailable last night due to 'other commitments'. Whatever. The wine did flow and the crowd of mostly men, were like naughty school kids as they indulged in a pre-commute tipple, and worked on their excuses as they why they were late home and / or smelling of alcohol.

The Lord Aberconway is definitely not Tina Turner at the O2. And if it is, it's more eighties stadium rock cliche pub then sixties 'Hoxton cool' soul. But for what it is, it's a lovely little pub, and a worthwhile detour if you have time to kill before your commute.

Bean and Gone Cafe, Spitalfields Market

Coffee and hairdressing are not two things that I naturally associate together. Whether that's due to my follically challenged status or simply demonstrates a lack of vision I'm not sure, however the Bean and Gone cafe proves that it can work.
That's right, Bean and Gone is adjoined to a hair salon where should you be sat at the bar, you can check out people getting cut, coloured, extended and whatever else it is that the haired humans like to do.
Okay, it hasn't got the funkiness of nearby great the Market Coffee House, nor does it serve the top of the range coffee that its Antipodean owned neighbour Taylor St Baristas does. Another flaw is that it is often full to its very small roof with the terminally despised and unemployed people that we used to call bankers.
In spite of this, Bean and Gone is a regular for the Rock Star and me due to its charming and very attractive staff, great snacks, and of course the coffee. Not necessarily in that order of course. But back to the coffee - it's great stuff, and provides the right level of kick to get you through the day. Perfect if you've ever gota hangover, although clearly not a Bloody Mary.
Drop in and don't judge it by appearances. And of course, book in your haircut while you wait.

Brazas, Tulse Hill

After several months of trying to get it together, the Rock Star, his other half and I finally met for dinner at his favourite haunt, Brazas in Tulse Hill. Many places claim to be family run, but Brazas, with Mom and Dad in the kitchen and son out front of house, is the genuine article.
The Northerner and I have eaten there several times for lunch so are fairly well known by the team. However the Rock Star and his partner are in a different league, having eaten there for at least once a week since it opened over a year ago. Mind you, given the combination of hearty food a great selection of Portugese and South American wines and the loveliest service you're likely to find in the Dirty South I can see why. Brazas does big well seasoned mains, complemented by big flavoured wine, and delicious desserts of which the portions are massive. In fact, to use that most hackneyed of advertising expressions, the only thing that isn't big is the prices !!!
I shan't run through the menu as it something you should discover for yourself, but I'm especially fond of the spicy fishcake starters and any of the panfried salmon, Sunday roast pork, or steak main courses. While you can't go wrong with any of the dessert choices, from pavalovas, to oven baked cheesecakes.
You never have to book and you are never dining alone. The Rock Star is worried about how it will survive given it's Tulse Hil'ish location and the credit crunch. I think with the combination of food, service and price that it offers, it will be just fine.

Market Coffee House, Spitalfields

So how about a big bold claim - the Market Coffee House in Spitalfields is the best cafe in London. Not convinced? Well over the last year or so it's become a regular – i.e. daily - haunt for me and my good buddy, AKA the Rock Star. We've become genuine fan and the Rock Star knows a thing or two about fandom. Here are some of the reasons why we are so keen on the place.

Reason One - great coffee. Obvious I know, but it’s surprising how many cafes serve bitter, weak or what I personally regard as the cardinal sin of coffee - lukewarm. Not so the Market.

Reason Two - Great food. The ham and cheese toasted sandwiches are the heartiest and best in London; the cakes, simply to die for.

Reason Three – the staff. Everything that is good about London service is represented by this multicultural (English, European, Antipodean) team of hipsters who prove that being cool and friendly can co-exist. Oh and they are very good at their job. And they are very good looking. Or so the Rock Star says.

Reason Four – the management. I don’t know the owner’s name but she is the personification of charm and serenity. She also comes with the cutest Jack Russell.

Reason Five – the customers. Besides the Rock Star and me you have your mix of East London hipsters; fashion conscious European tourists; Americans on gap year both MacBooked and TimeOut’ed; and the odd stray from the City to provide the pantomime hate figures.

The Rock Star and I have been there today. We will go again tomorrow. I suggest you drop by sometime.