Jude the Obscure, Jericho, Oxford: We Love Sundays?

As far as statements go, We Love Sundays is pretty unequivocal; and taken next to a £7.95 price tag the Roast at Jude the Obscure in Jericho seemed like a good option. Now I'm not expecting gastro pub fare, just the hope of some wholesome pub grub. I can't tell you where it came on the scale between boil in the bag heap and my Peasant benchmark as Jude's relationship with Sunday seems to be an on off one; Roasts only being available November onwards. The thinking perhaps being that no one eats Sunday Roast in Autumn? The suggested alternative to the Roast is, as a Yorkshireman, quite shocking. In fact I think this would bring a grimace to the face of even the most ardent Lancastrian.

Yorkshire Pudding is something that really shouldn't be messed with too much; as it simply doesn't need to be. A Roast Beef Yorkshire Pudding Wrap therefore is something of an abomination, ranking up there with the Lasangwich. There are doubtless pud-purists out there that object to Toad in the Hole as unecessary. This concoction would finish them off. On the assumption that a Yorkshire Pudding should be light, crisp and risen after being cooked in oil or fat; then preparing a pancake like batter wrap surely makes it something else other than a pudding? But then Soggy Beef and Batter Pancake Wrap doesn't really have the same ring I suppose. 

Lou, ordered the Wrap, though bearing in mind that she hasn't had a proper Yorkshire Pudding she cannot be held accountable; and it at least allowed me a guilt free taste; albeit a small one. With a  consistency of pancake rather than Yorkshire pudding I loaded it with horseradish and chewed; and chewed. Recent bids to endow the humble Yorkshire Pud with European protection would put pay to not the dish but the passing off as a Yorkshire Pudding; perhaps we could have the start of the Yorkshire Pancake? Which could almost be bearable.

Enter the Flagon: Beer Kung Fu - Walk Like a Panther

Beer Kung Fu Master status comes to the lucky few. We don't wear a belt to denote our status but we can be seen in action in licensed premises throughout the drinking world.

The ability to pass through a crowd of punters without spillage is one sign of a Master and the most precious of skills (more so when its £4 a pint). It's what we call Walk Like a Panther. Perhaps a Panther whose had a few, but a Panther all the same.

The latest test to hone my Master skills was the Garage, Highbury. Before me stood a crowd of anticipant punters; Grinderman's entrance onto the stage was moments away and I had two pints filled to the plastic brim with expensive, bland, gassy Lout.

I choose a zig zag route through jostling groups; last minute toilet dashers and most dangerous of all hazards: the random wavy arms. Like flailing beer assassins, they can spell disaster. Unlike stationary hazards such as random laptop cases this foe often cannot be anticipated with forethought. They require the lightening dexterity of a young Jackie Chan. In my case a quick back step and roll passed this obstacle with zero spillage. Other moves for any aspiring Master are the shoulder nudge, beer in the air (a risky move when failure leads to spillage on heads below. In which case normal Kung Fu maybe required); all accompanied by a booming shout of 'SCUSE ME! I am in no way what you would describe as coordinated but with the Power of Beer I dare say I could pirouette if required. 

Beer safely delivered and status well in tact I hand the plastic vessel to Captain English, he immediately spills the contents, misjudging the flexibility of the plastic (for someone described as a Music Alpha Male, having been to more gigs than some roadies, this is an amateur moment). More training required for his Yellow Belt I feel. Grinderman take the stage, Nick Cave throwing some impressive shapes, throwing mike stands and generally making the stage hands earn their keep; which while great on stage, makes me think that he could be added to the list of foes, when off stage.

Are there any fellow Masters out there who wish to share the ways? 

Intoxicating Sweet Shop: Draft House, Tower Bridge

I first heard that the Draft House had a new Tower Bridge outpost through Twitter and a look at the website revealed a soft launch with 50% off all food before the "real opening" on 13th September. I suppose the thing with a soft launch is that it a kind of forgive us if you we make mistakes but we are only new, we're not really open yet. Whatever your thoughts on that I thought it a fair enough deal at 50% off and based on my visit to Battersea I spent the rest of the day clock watching.

Captain English took little convincing and we spent more time debating how to get there. Now he holds a Boris Bike token walking seems so, well, pedestrian. Vernon as usual was a tentative and with that we had our three. I made it to Tower Bridge quickly through the City backstreets and all that stood between me and the a much needed beer was the tourist throng. I weaved my way through, taking no regard to stop while the fifth or sixth or seventh tourist took a picture of a loved one pointing at the bridge, at the river, at City Hall. It took on an almost Top Gear challenge anticipation as I got closer to the Draft House, expecting to see the Captain fly past. 

Stepping in, I saw him just at the bar, wiping the slightest glint of sweat away, which seems to have been more from the mission to find a docking station than the actual ride. The décor is somewhere between gastro pub and diner with melamine tables and a pea green banquette around the walls and a centre high table with stools. The walls, as with the Battersea Draft House are hung with classic music posters and despite the table service by smart staff in shirt and tie it feels relaxed enough for a quick beer, a longer session or a proper meal, which seems to be the main focus.

Attention soon turned to the pumps. Despite the array of bottled choice, the first had to be hand pulled, but with a choice of 10 or more it wasn't proving to be easy. We started with something we know, the Wandle Ale and steadily worked our way through Junction, Porterhouse Red and Sharps', Chalky's Bite, to name those that I recall. From the bottle we had Mort Subite Kriek (in place of dessert) and an Aventinus. It has been said that when faced with this kind of choice I am like a kid in a sweet shop, albeit the most intoxicating of sweet shops. This was no exception.

Food is an easy choice once I spy Pork Belly, served with a Black Pudding mash. Vernon has arrived by this point and turns his nose up at the thought of Black Pudding. In my mind unless you are a Vegetarian or acutely Hemophobic you have no business turning your nose up at Black Pudding, not least when it is mixed with mash potato  The pork is good as is the crackling, albeit sparing in its portion. My appetite does however grow in proportion to the volume I have drunk, so I'd maybe have to return to comment conclusively.

Compared to my last Draft House experience this was comparable; with a great beer selection, good food and friendly and knowledgeable staff. Service was a little unsure at times, though there was always a more experienced barman to hand, but as I've already said this is early days. I will return, when I'm sure the service will be as flawless as the beer. 

In The Wedge: The Cavendish Arms

So it's been a while since my last proper post. I'm back by popular demand. Well OK maybe just the demand of a few of my regular drinking companions, but back all the same.

So where better to start than The Cavendish Arms in Stockwell. I've mentioned  the Cavendish in previous posts but I felt it was time to do it justice.

Found in the wedge between South Lambeth Road and Wandsworth Road, the Cavendish on approach looks like an estate pub which would be avoided by all but locals and a brave stranger. Draw closer and you will find a newly revamped beer garden which is a mere taster for what you will find inside. A comfy living room atmosphere of Chesterfields and the odd Spitting Image annual in the main bar is your starting point of discovering the delights of the Cavendish. 

It never ceases to impress me with it's friendly service from the Landlady, sound engineer and sometime Musician Shirley-Jane, to Dave the Compere (pulls of a gold jacket with aplomb), Daniel the barman and his architecturally impressive hairdo or occasional Pub Organist, Tam. Yes I did say Pub Organist. As if this in itself isn't reason enough to visit there is the Ballroom. At one time this would have been the smokey backroom; now transformed into an intimate venue complete with stage, mirrorball and velvet curtain. The often free line up includes Music, Comedy and now and again a bit of Burlesque; and who doesn't like a bit of free tassle!

So if you haven't guessed already I am quite a fan. Usually I would leave the choice to the reader but I will make an exception and command you to jump on the Northern or Victoria line, bus or bike and head to The Cavendish Arms.

Slack

A combination of iPhone v. washing machine (washing machine won in a clear knockout), trips to Amsterdam, Paris, Berlin and a sprinkle of apathy have seen me being a little slack on the blogging front of late. Rest assured I will be putting this right over the next week or so with a few entries that are bubbling away at the moment. So coming up will be:


Herr Spargal's Berlin punk karaoke

Farewell to Meister (he's departed for sunnier climes not the afterlife!)

Dancing monkeys and cocktail clowns in Paris

East London's finest

The Sam Smith's Crawl (or more accurately Stagger)

And more…

Oh… Meister does this count as a post?

Game of Two Halves, Game of Two Pubs: First Half

It's a Saturday afternoon kick off for the Socceroos second fixture and the Aussies gathered again in SW8. Our venue this time is a new Sports Bar on Wilcox Road which adjoins the A Tasca corner restaurant. I've passed many Portuguese bars in SW8, but until now have not tried one. It's friendly albeit empty and has Sagres and Super Bock as the standard offering; preferable over a pint Carling any day.

The game's kicked off when Lou and I arrive and we find Meister and Nic watching intently. When the commentary is low, monotone and wholly in Portugeuse you have no choice but to watch intently. Minutes later the first goal goes in and the Aussies are looking confident. This lasts all of 13 minutes before the double blow of Kewell sent off and a Ghanaian penalty goal. The commentary takes on more enthusiasm and pace. As much as commentary can be banal it still gives a little insight. We ask if there is anyway the barman can get BBC. He apologises that he can't. Nic jokingly tells him that he can translate. The barman misses the humour and duly translates, proving in the process that commentary is universally banal. The whistle blows for half time and we move on across the road in search of banality.

Mawbey Arms, Stockwell. C'MON AUSSIES

Having watched England's stuttering first match I was in little doubt that the Germans were going to repeat such a performance with the Soceroo's. As much as I admired the optimism of the Aussies round the table I couldn't help but think that they were about to get a lesson in the Beautiful Game.

Our unlikely venue for the Sunday evening kick off was the Mawbey Arms in Stockwell. Tucked between South Lambeth Road and Wandsworth Road its not a place you stumble upon. Patriotism is not in short supply here. I start to count the St Georges flags and get bored by 73. The barmaid eyes us with caution and I'm expecting the South London equivalent of "your not from round these parts are you". As we indecisively look up and down the pumps debating the merits of each choice a long sigh is audible from behind the bar. Meister notices the Doombar and comments that it's available back in Perth which initiates further discussion. The sigh is now accompanied by tapping fingers. Ordering our drinks the tapping ceases and we move to the beer garden, because who knows what follows tapping fingers.

The patriotic theme continues and I can add another 80 flags to the tally. The big screen is accompanied by big sound, the volume booming out. We take it in turns to try and turn it down, with no success, but this soon becomes unnecessary as the rib rattling bass of a car stereo drowns out the pre match analysis. By half time the confidence is waning and the cries of "C'MON Aussies" are sounding increasingly desperate. The car stereo has stopped and we can now hear the commentators. They seem to have their Thesaurus out and are seeing how many variants on eviscerate they can use by full time.

The whistle blows. At 4-0 the enthusiasm has drained out of the Aussies and post match celebratory drinks look unlikely. We head back into the pub to drain the last of our drinks. There are a few more punters now and unnervingly all eyes are on us. O and Meister are looking at a particular flag of the many. It's signed by Peter Shilton we are told. I nod respectfully as one should. There may even have been a slight eyebrow raise. "Peter Who?" asks O. I explain while the laughter and shaking of heads subsides. Making our way to the door Meister seems to think he can get out through the brick wall. "I'm sure there was a door there before". More laughter.

Supper Club: Harwood Arms

As an aged Sloan Ranger and her daughter loudly berate a Polish tradesman, for the crime of asking them to move down the tube carriage,  I raise my eyebrows at Cockles. I sense we are both hoping that the schlep to Fulham is worth it. We are en route to meet Captain English and Meister for what could be the final Supper Club: A loose fixture in our diaries where we invariably end the night with tight waistbands and light wallets. Meister is heading back to Oz and is working through pubs and restaurants at a commendable rate. Our venue, the Harwood Arms, has a task ahead of it in the gastronomic stakes but as London's first Michelin starred pub the night is full of promise.

Set on a residential street the unsuspecting could wander in thinking it was your bog standard Gastro Pub, though here you will not find the standard fare. We find English and Meister at the bar and take it in turns to ponder the menu. Much scratching of heads and stroking of imaginery beards ensues.  We are still deciding well after being seated.

Wine selection is Meister and Cockles area of expertise. With a considered debate and lots of questions of the staff we start with the Chateau Petit Val Grand Cru, St Emilion, Bordeaux, 2005. I will
confess that my question was less about the attributes of this particular choice but more a question of how much it would cost my pocket. They both have form for choosing wine by quality and not price which I am slowly coming to terms with. Straight faced Meister tells me it's £45. My eyebrows raise and I bite back my Northern urge to protest. Well in truth there may have been a little protest but then  curiosity gets the better of me and we go with it. Now Oz Clarke has nothing on this Aussie in terms of the theatrics of wine tasting. First comes the long smell with nose fully in the glass, which I'm told should tell you most of what you need to know. Second the swirl, followed by the taste, with or without a slight slurp and then final consideration. A slight pause for dramatic effect. And the verdict. In this case it's the thumbs up. Some would view this spectacle as pretension but I see it more as Meister quality control.  I'm not disappointed with the choice and have to admit its good though I feel I need some further education to fully appreciate it. A trip to a few wineries perhaps.

Grilled salted ox tongue with cauliflower cheese croquette, bread and butter pickles is first off. I can't say I've had Tongue in the last 20 years (snigger) but this was an excellent reintroducton. What I expected could be chewy was delicate and light. A great start which set me up for the main course. Shoulder of Roe deer follows, served with sauerkraut, mash and greens. For two on a wooden platter, my eyes widen as it is placed between English and myself. The bone slips away effortless as we dish up generous hunks and even more generous dollops of mash and sauerkraut. It's a bold, hearty dish which is what Supper Club is all about. It is faultless. I am at risk of drowning my keyboard as my mouth waters just thinking about this! Rounding off the meal I am torn between the English cheeses with toasted Bara Brith or the baked custard with Grasmere gingerbread. I'm told the Bara Brith and gingerbread are both made on the premises and on the basis that no one makes Bara Brith like Nan did I go for the custard. The top cracks satisfyingly but I could have probably done without the accompanying sorbet. The gingerbread is good but lacks the dustiness and snap I was expecting. That said it's a good end to a great meal. Where the country comes to town is the phrase that came to mind when I was trying to sum up the Harwood Arms and it's menu. They beat me to it I see as it's emblazoned on their website. Just when you thought you'd had an original thought!