This is probably Britain's most-read blog about beer and pubs (although I do stray off-topic sometimes, and beer geeks seem to hate me). I started writing it in January 2007. Back then I was a lawyer working in the City of London. In April 2009 I became the landlord of The Gunmakers Arms in Clerkenwell, a wonderful little pub in my favourite part of London.
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I didn't have to say that quite as often as I'd feared. The WAGs of my regulars can relax. So far so good. Last night (stupidly busy) we were able to offer three ales and a real cider on tap. That's a step in the right direction. Just ignore the plank of MDF the new beer engines are sitting on.
InBev want me to take their new 4% abv version of Stella in place of Carlsberg. If I do, I'll get a nice new chrome t-bar for my four keg taps. What do you think? Every pub needs a cooking lager, after all.
The course of true (beer) love never did run smooth. Along came the cheery InBev engineers as planned. They had Stella Artois logos on their work shirts, but they'd come to remove that very product from our bar, then install a new brace of four Angram handpumps for real ale. All was well with the world, but of course a problem arose: the shelf below the bar was too high, the drop on the new beer engines too low. Ach.
A phone call to our resident handyman later, and the Irish saviour came speeding along on his moped. A makeshift solution was worked out - a 3/4 inch piece of chipboard along a section of the bar top, on which our new engines will sit temporarily. But will John finish raising the bar - help! - in time for us to open at noon? If he doesn't, this place becomes strictly a wine bar.
If you run or work for a brewery, I have a favour to ask. Please - send me your bar towels. Despite being the most useful things known to man, they seem to be scarcer than the coelacanth. I keep getting sent either nothing at all or those dreadful rubber backed "bar runners". If you'd like to help - and get a bit of airtime for your brewery at what will soon be one of London's bestest boozers - email me at stonchblog@gmail.com. Thanks muchly.
I grew up by the mouth of the Tyne, where the river broadens before meeting the North Sea, overlooked by a ruined Abbey standing stark against the slate-grey sky (blue only if you're very lucky). The conurbation that clings to the great river's banks extends for miles inland. Only when you strike west of Newcastle - now weirdly elided with its southern neighbour Gateshead, I notice - is the Tyne afforded a gentler aspect. At the village of Newburn, the banks are green and trees lean over the water.
Newburn was the site of an Anglo-Scots bust-up in 1640, when a (non-)Tartan army forced their way across the ford, brushing aside local forces tasked with protecting Newcastle. Today, it's notable for our purposes as the home of the Big Lamp Brewery. Housed in a reconstructed pump station, the North-East's oldest microbrewery moved from Newcastle's grimy West End to its current premises in 1996.
The building is an impressive expanse of dark stone, though it's marred at one end by an understandable, though regrettable, glass appendage that houses extra diners. Inside, the small and cosy bar area cowers away from bigger tables in the restaurant. They make some effort with the food, and keep the prices low, but what's plated up is merely pub fodder. Ersatz music drones in the background. Elegance is lacking. The beer is the draw.
And what a draw it is. No fewer than six beers were available from handpumps, all brewed on site. Keelman Brown, at 5.7% abv, is perhaps a little too saccharine but unarguably satisfying, with big hearty flavours. Summerhill Stout was an instant favourite, with roasted, burnt overtones ever-present, but never overpowering. The poorly-named Sunny Daze - a hoppy golden ale at a guzzleable 3.6% abv - was gorgeous. The session and strong bitters were less engaging.
All the Big Lamp beers were served with a tight, creamy Northern head, aided by plastic sparkler attachments screwed to the end of swooping swan neck taps. This treatment gave me no cause for complaint, although even if it had I would've kept it to myself. I know better than to show I've gone native since moving from this area to the effete South.
I've railed against Hobgoblin in the past. I hate the name and I hate the marketing. I read Lord of the Rings when I was 12 and I went to see the movies when they came out. That's about as far as I'll go with all that swords and sorcery shit - I certainly don't want to see such nonsense in the pub.
However, this is the week of Halloween, and I've always been comfortable with my own hypocrisy. I've ordered a few nines of Hobgoblin, and will be selling it for the bargain price of £2.50. The very nice Marston's rep (hello, love) sent me some point of sale gubbins the other day. Although I binned the beermats and gave the XL "Lagerboy" t-shirt to an elephantine pal (he knows who he is), I've been prevailed upon to put the battery powered, flashing pump clip on display. The beer itself really isn't bad. I think they improved it when the strength dropped from 5% to 4.5% abv. It's certainly a touch drier. And so-o-o spoo-ooky.
Hobgoblin (website) is a dark ale brewed by Wychwood of Oxfordshire. Since earlier this year, the formerly independent brewery has been a subsidiary of Marston's.
The phantom tramp is a true Clerkenwell character. He's as real to me as Big Dave who used to work on the door at The Griffin, or that old man who speaks in tongues to apparitions in thin air.
I've written about his drinking habits before: he's had a crack at Tennent's Super, Carlsberg Special Brew and Skol Super. I'd like to think I've taken you on a virtual tour of his beery journey, as he sits down in the streets of this historic quarter and rips open his latest tinnie of rocket juice. Well, if you've enjoyed following the man's exploits, you may be saddened by how it all ends.
I've started to notice a disturbing pattern. In the spot where Il Fantasma usually discards his empties, I've been seeing evidence of a malaise that's descended upon him. He seems to have taken up Stella drinking. Where previously he let one inexpensive can of superstrength do its work, now he's gone all social on us, preferring to gently sup poxy little bottles of normal lager. It's like choosing the stopping train when a direct service is sitting on the platform.
As the sun cut through the cold and clear air, we crossed Waterloo Bridge and made for the OXO Tower on the South Bank. My last visit had involved far too many canapes and soul-scratching convos with men wearing business casual. A pleasant beer with a pal exorcised that memory.
OXO's beer list is less impressive than the view, but one or two lovelies is enough for me. Anchor Summer Ale is an US import from San Francisco that's been knocking around over there since the 80s. The brewery claims it was the first commercially produced American weiss in the post-prohibition era. It's a full-bodied, well-integrated beer, lacking the dubious banana and bubblegum flavours that usually put me off wheat beers in the German tradition. However, as I was paying £4.50 a bottle and it was three in the afternoon, I decided to stick to one.
The OXO Tower bar adjoins the famous brasserie and restaurant of the same name. It's owned by Harvey Nicks. Darling.
I really, really love InBev. A nice lady from their planning department just called to arrange a time for two of their engineers to come to our pub next week. They'll be installing two new handpumps, taking the total up to four. We need them: ale sales have gone through the roof - increasing by around 800% - since I took over as manager. Last week we sold a firkin of Landlord in 80 minutes. The guest beers fly out. It's all good.
It's especially kind of them to do this in the circumstances, as we're removing two of their draught keg products to make room for the new handles. We'll still be selling oodles of Staropramen - their famous Czech pivo, and our most popular lager - so they've little cause to grumble. As I've said before, it's a product I enjoy, and so do my customers.
The landlady of The Seven Stars is relatively famous, as it happens. Roxy Beaujolais runs a lovely, posh little pub, although I wish her staff wouldn't serve ale in branded lager glasses. Dark Star Hophead is usually available, often joined by another ale from that spectacular Sussex brewery. The food isn't bad, either (although ours is much better).
Last year I wrote a piece about daft pub rules. In the discussion that followed, others told of dictats from landlords across the country. Roxy's got her own strict standards, as evidenced by the sandwich board outside of her gaff. I'm 100% with her on the sandwiches front - I'm sick of fending off enquiries from people who seem to mistake us for Pret a Manger. Away with ye, savages.
The Seven Stars is in Holborn, at 53-54 Carey Street (WC2A 2JB, map). It's popular with barristers, many of whom seem remarkably indiscreet.
Some casks are battered to hell and buggery. Few arrive in your cellar in pristine condition. The names embossed on the barrels say it all: they were made for defunct breweries such as Courage, Allied and Whitbread, yet are still in widespread circulation. However, this firkin of Old Peculier really did take the piss. It looks a like a family of birds have nested on top.
Despite my misgivings, the beer inside the barrel was perfect, unlike three nines I had to return a fortnight ago. They'd clearly come from a bad batch. One exploded, the keystone flying off in my absence, showering the cellar with hop leaves and sticky beer. One was racked and tapped but tasted of vinegar. I didn't even touch the third. Back to Masham with ye.
You'll have noticed a slowdown on this blog over the last couple of weeks. I've just been too busy with real life pub stuff - there's been no time to sit down and write about it. Of course I'm pleased our efforts are paying off - nowadays only Monday is reliably quiet - but it's bloody hard work.
I managed to take a break for two hours on Thursday. With a pal, I wandered down to Oxford Street. These Hari Krishna devotees cheered me up no end.
There's an interesting piece on Jeff Pickthall's blog about real ale and class.You can read it here. I won't comment on his views about CAMRA, other than to say I'm not sure a "working man/real ale myth" is quite as prevalent as Jeff suggests.
I know Jeff's article is a week old, but then I've hardly had time for a piss break in the last seven days, let alone an extended session reading other people's blogs.
The unfolding crisis of global capitalism doesn't seem to be slowing down the pub trade - at least, not from where I'm standing. Every week we get busier, then busier still. I need a holiday. The return of Old Peculier to our handpumps has gifted me a slightly fuzzy head this morning, and thanks to a bout of manflu I've got a sandpaper throat. Boo.
Two of my good friends were married - to each other, no less - on Saturday. The weather was perfect. Is anything more beautiful than autumn leaves bathed in bright summer sunshine? Myself and Dave from the Jerusalem Tavern drove up to Oxfordshire early doors with two casks of ale for the reception, complete with mallet, spiles and taps. I felt obliged to lash into them after the wedding feast. Truly, I'd rather have stuck to the Pinot Noir, but one has a reputation (and a liver) to think of.
Geek facts: the beer was Golden Ale from St Peter's Brewery. It was racked bright.
I drank lots of German beer last night. This man was serving it. I then went home and had a distinctly un-Bavarian takeway from my local Chinese. London's German beer fest is on until Sunday at Zeitgeist (49-51 Black Prince Road, SE11 6AB, map). I'd spend the whole weekend there, but can't because two of my friends have selfishly decided to get married tomorrow.
Go to Zeitgeist in Lambeth (49-51 Black Prince Road, SE11 6AB, map) tonight for German beer. Or you could go tomorrow. Or the day after. Or the day after that. There's 1000 litres of the stuff and it and IT'S OUR RESPONSIBILITY TO DRINK IT. Jawohl!
The festival starts at 6pm this evening (Thursday) and runs until Sunday. All the beers have come direct from small German breweries and will be priced at £3.70 a pint. I'll be there tonight. I won't be wearing anything purple. I've just lined my stomach with gnocchi in a cream of stilton sauce with spinach and grilled chicken. Thank, Chef.
If opinion polls are to be believed, an ex-flatmate of mine will almost certainly be elected to Parliament next year. Perhaps I should start lobbying him on behalf of the brewing and pub industries. Any suggestions as to what I should be bending his ear about?
I'm off to Thornbridge Hall in Derbyshire today for a beer writers' beano. There'll be various talks and panel discussions about lager. The brewer of one my favourite Italian beers - Birrifico Italiano Tipopils - will be there.
If you'd like to go on a virtual pub crawl around Cambridge, check out this video. Unlike a real pub crawl, you won't get pissed, none of your mates will storm off in a huff after a blazing row, nor will you feel like shit the next day. It's also highly unlikely that you'll get a crave on for a Chinese or an Indian, massively over order, then end up falling asleep in the restaurant amidst an untouched banquet. The video was sent to me by John, a recent visitor to our pub and a reader of this blog. I don't know what his lanky collaborator's called. He created it with his pal Matt.
I'm not sure I agree that Cambridge offers "cosmopolitan living", nor do I think there's any excuse for using one's fingers to denote speech marks. Apart from those gripes, it entertained me for 13 minutes. The lads plan to produce more of the same, just for the shits and giggles. Obviously, I'd suggest their next effort deals with the fabulous pub scene here in Clerkenwell.
Sorry I haven't written anything here for a while. Well, I'm not sorry really. After all, you aren't paying anything for this. It's been busy at the pub, a happy state of affairs that looks set to continue as we move into the colder months.
Thanks to all at the Humpty Dumpty Brewery in Norwich for sending me a box of beer together with a get well soon note when I was laid up with the busted ankle. I'm up and about again, although the limp persists.
A shout out to fellow beer writers Jay Brooks, Tim Hampson, Zak Avery, Adrian Tierney-Jones, Melissa Cole, Jeff Pickthall and Ron Pattinson, all of whom visited the pub on Wednesday. Ron returned to drink six and a half pints of Theakston's Old Peculier in the time it took us to serve 73 meals during Thursday lunchtime. Hats off, old boy. After that, he left to get his plane in almost exactly the same state as when he walked in.
I asked chef to come up with a recipe that uses Theakston's Old Peculier, our current guest ale. As any fule kno, it's better to use lager when making batter for fish, so up until now we haven't been using any of the good stuff in the kitchen. He's played a blinder and made a phenomenal beef stew. It's swimming with chuck steak, onions, potatoes and carrots, and we're serving it with toasted bread and three types of mustard.
Lots of you came along to London's German beer fest in May. It was jointly organised by Bier-Mania and this blog, and was held at Zietgeist in Lambeth. If you did make it, you'll remember two things about it:
It was absolutely in-effing-credible, with 19 different gravity fed beers from small German breweries served in a fantastic venue.
It was so popular, the beer ran out a day early. Sorry about that.
Well, good news: we're doing it again. Next week, an even bigger fest kicks off at Zeitgeist (49-51 Black Prince Road, SE11 6AB, map). It starts at 6pm on Thursday (9th October) and runs through to closing time on the Sunday (12th October). This one's designed to tie in with the Oktoberfest, currently underway in Munich. There'll be lots more beer this time - at least 800 almost 1000 litres. A provisional beer list in PDF format is here. Full details about the event are on Andy Neil's Bier-Mania website.
A PDF version of the beer list is here. Bier-Mania is a tour operator run by beer enthusiasts that organises extended trips across Europe and in Colorado, USA. Zietgeist is London's premier German pub, owned and operated by a couple from Cologne. This blog is a website written by someone who hurt himself last week and made a bit drama of it.
