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Christmas at The Gunmakers
Last night, I noticed for the first time that the Queen Vic has exactly the same till as The Gunmakers. I'm elated. To celebrate, here's a picture of the Vic's most famous landlady. We should never forget the service soap operas have done for the British pub, depicting them to be at the heart of our communities.
 I had dinner with Anita Dobson and her husband when they visited the Union back in my university days. She was as lovely as you'd expect. Apparently he's famous for something too.
 We get through a fair few guest beers here at The Gunmakers. The ones we enjoy most get re-ordered and - although they aren't constantly available - customers get to know them and can order with confidence. Over the last year, I've had a few personal favourites. Titanic White Star and Oakleaf Hole Hearted spring to mind.
Purity Mad Goose will debut tonight, as soon as our last firkin of Bitter & Twisted runs dry. I've just had a sneaky pint from the cellar. It's a winner. The fresh, green hop smell hit me when I first vented the cask two days ago. It's sad to admit it (and a clear indication that, like it or not, I'm still a bit geeky about beer), but since then I've been looking forward to it being ready.
It's only 4.2% abv, but has the body of a much stronger beer. It's clear as a bell, copper in colour and topped with a fine white head (even when poured via gravity from the cask). There's plenty of condition - I'm watching bubbles rise in my glass as I type this. That aroma just draws you in, and reminds me of the American cask ales I tried at last year's Great British Beer Festival. Bitterness dominates at first, but doesn't overwhelm or detract from the long, creamy finish. I'm left with a tingle on the roof of my mouth and the desire to see off a few pints.
No wonder SIBA handed this a gong. I've just put in a big order for next Monday, and plan to keep this at the bar for a while. Come in and try it.
If you do come in to The Gunmakers tonight to try Mad Goose and find it isn't on, get stuck into the Bitter & Twisted. There's hardly any left so a concerted effort should see it off. Young Eddie will then be happy to rush down the cellar and put the Purity on. And buy him a pint so he can enjoy it too.
There's an online campaign to amend the smoking ban to provide an exemption for pubs. Here's a video they've put out on YouTube. At 0:55, a publican stands up and says he's going to go out of business due to the ban, and claims to speak on behalf of the "publicans of this nation". He seems very nice and makes a reasonable fist of speaking in public (one of the principle measures of a man), so I don't want to come down too hard on the dear chap. But he doesn't speak for me. I don't want to see the ban amended. Then we've got cuddly Anthony Worrall-Thompson telling us that "smokers are made into pariahs" by the legislation. That's nonsense. In fact, it's the non-smoker left at the table while his or her pals go for a fag who looks like a lemon.
The only major beef I have with the ban is that one's neighbours can get annoyed because the numbers of people enjoying themselves al fresco leads to a bit more noise in the street. But it hasn't scuppered our ability to make money here. Publicans who're struggling should divert their efforts to more useful means of promoting their business, and give up on blaming a piece of legislation that's fully bedded down and largely supported by the public.
AmendtheSmokingBan.com is here.
While scanning BBC News Online last night after closing up the pub, I noticed that the second most read story related to beer. Brew Dog's Tokyo*, an 18.2% abv effort, has smashed records to become Britain's strongest beer - and caused controversy along the way.
Here's the piece. Have a read, and let me know what you think. Are you convinced by the brewery's claim to be "providing a cure to binge beer-drinking" by producing beers like this? Or do you have some sympathy with the reactions of those who speak for Alcohol Focus Scotland and the British Liver Trust?
Last week I asked if you'd tried Purity Mad Goose. Adnams are distributing it and their rep had been bending my ear about how great it is. I've given in and ordered a couple of firkins. They arrived on Monday morning, so the beer should be on the bar by the end of the week. Other beers on at The Gunmakers this week are Woodforde's Wherry, Harviestoun Bitter & Twisted, Bath Golden Hare, Morrissey Fox Blonde, Summer Lightning and (of course) Timothy Taylor Landlord.
According to a friend, I'm coming across as an angry young man on my blog. I have mixed feelings about that. On the one hand, it's not good that I come over as angry because I'm not. In fact I have a smile on my face right now thanks to certain circumstances. On t'other, it's good to be described as young when you're in your fourth decade and look about a dozen years older than you should. Today I bought an anti-ageing moisturiser in Boots for the first time. Eek.
So here's today's menu. Just chalked it up. Can't be bothered to post anything else.
According to the British Beer and Pub Association, the UK is losing 52 pubs a week. Why don't they be honest and insert the word "shit" before "pubs" in the headline, and admit that many of those reopen immediately or soon after under better management?
I enjoyed this article on the BBC website, reporting that the Queen caused a flap at Lords when she asked for a Dubonnet. Staff struggle to locate a bottle, causing the BBC to ask who still drinks the stuff. It set me thinking about the pointless booze that lurks behind the bar in old-fashioned pubs across the country.
When I took over the Gunmakers, the top shelf was rammed with absolute nonsense. In the end, I chucked a lot of it. Down the sink went the Martini Rosso, the Frangelico, the Malibu and the Archers. Now we concentrate on quality gin, whisky, vodka and rum, and offer very little else in the spirits department. I'm happy with that. After all, the look on a window-licker's face when you tell them you don't stock Southern Comfort or Tia Maria is priceless.
Of course, there are equivalents in the beer world. Does a fridge really need a stock of Young's Light Ale, Whitbread Gold Label or Mackeson Stout? And have you seen anyone order a bottle of Holsten Pils since Jeff Goldblum disappeared off the radar?
There are two things I've been putting off for far two long. The first is getting my shit together for my VAT return. In the end, it took me no time at all, after I'd stretched the concept of procrastination to its very limits over the last few weeks. The second is getting my hair cut. Inadvertently, I've started to rock the Jonathan Ross look once more. Thankfully one of the chaps from the hair salon on Leather Lane came in for a vino today, so I seized the opportunity and booked an appointment. I look like a twat with long hair.
 The photo was taken last week from my bedroom window, looking down on a few happy punters regulars.
I'll struggle to convince you that this piece is anything other than an excuse to post one of my favourite holiday snaps, but here goes. You see, during the week I spent with pals on the Amalfi Coast last month, I had one of the most satisfying restaurant experiences of my life. Now, that has to be worth writing about, surely? If I kept mum I'd be jipping you.
Torre Normanna is situated in a thirteenth century tower that emerges from the cliff side by as you head south from the resort town of Maiori. And it's fabulous. I could stop there, and you'd still have something to chew on. But I won't. I'll be generous and tell you more, after you've taken in my lovely photo.
 To enter, one skips along a narrow walkway that leads to the tower from the base of steep steps that descend from the roadside. Inside, the corridors and stairways are narrow and claustrophobic. (They haven't resisted the temptation to stick a suit of armour in there - it greets you as you descend to the loos - which is a shame.) The main dining area, however, has views on three sides across the Tyrrhenian Sea.
The seafood was sublime. Antipasti worthy of mention were the literally-named "raw of the sea" dish and the lobster salad. A primo of risotto with clams, crayfish, mussels and squid was one of the finest plates I've ever been presented with. Daintier secondi of lamb, fillet of beef and rare tuna weren't quite as revelatory, but nevertheless creditable. To top it all, the local plonk was a touch more than half-decent, and the espresso cups had silly little lids on them. Bliss.
There was, of course, one massive downside. It was vocalised by spoilsport Joe as he sat back after the meal, limoncello in hand, taking in our surroundings and inspecting the other diners (mainly wealthy men with their squeezes). If you're visiting somewhere like this, you really want to be avec mademoiselle, who would surely gaze longingly in your direction, wowed by your shrewd choice of restaurant. Instead, we called our far-too-friendly cabbie pal, Maurizio, and returned to our villa to play gin rummy, drink Birra Moretti, and collapse into bed, each alone. Such is life.
Yes, those sun loungers down by the water seem totally out of place. If you missed the link above, here's the restaurant's website.
I've developed some strange habits recently. One of them is a strange penchant for savoury pockets of munch from Gregg's, Britain's least lovely bakers. When I sent our sous-chef out for bread from the proper bakers today, I got him to stop off at Gregg's on the way back to pick me up a "steak" bake. That way, I didn't have to go in myself and be confronted with the horror of their sandwiches - working class sandwiches.
I'd forgotten about them, to be honest. All my adult life, a sandwich has been a thing of joy. Big and fat with many fillings. Constructed a la minute in a cutsey cafe, or taken from the shelves of EAT, Pret or M&S Simply Food. Ciabatta, baguette, perhaps even a wrap if you're slimming down. Devoured at leisure in the sun, or hastily al desko. But my experiences in Gregg's have reminded me that it wasn't always so. Once upon a time, when I lived in the frozen north, a sandwich was something very different.
Cheap Bread. Butter substitute. One measly filling (two if you're lucky). Job done. No salad, no mayo, no blending of flavours or textures. Crayfish and rocket? Fuck off, mate. It costs about a quid and tastes like cardboard. That's the working class sandwich.
I had a pint of Hop Back Summer Lightning in my hand just as the heavens opened. And then there really was lightning - in summer. That's worth mentioning, surely?
I appreciate that references to current weather conditions in London might not seem very relevant if you live elsewhere. But that's your bad for living somewhere else.
When I put the London Beer Map together, I was concentrating on beer - not pubs. As such a lot of places were included that aren't really to my taste, and likewise a few pubs I do in fact use were left out. I look at things differently now. Put simply, I won't visit a shithole just because it sells loads of beers from microbreweries (especially as so many of those are flat and eggy).
Now that I've got my own pub, I find I have less time to roam this urban sprawl in search of new boozers. If I take a couple of hours out to sink a few jars, I want to be sure I'm doing it somewhere that delivers. So right now it's a pretty pared down drinking experience for your correspondent. And for the first time ever, I'm able to name my favourite pubs without hesitation.
I had a bottle of Brew Dog Paradox last night (a 10% abv imperial stout aged in a whisky cask). I've got a stinker of a hangover today. Admittedly the pints of session ale I drank may have contributed, but this serves to remind me why I don't go in for silly-strength beers anymore. They upset your drinking rythm and fuck with your head the next morning.
. . . Purity Brewing's "Mad Goose"? If so, I'd like to hear your thoughts, please. I'm told it uses Hallertau, Cascase and Williamette hops. It's just won SIBA's award for Best Bitter 2009. I've sold Purity's Pure Gold before, and tried their UBU and Amber beers in other pubs. All have been pretty good.
The problem with not going to beer festivals anymore is that I don't get to try a lot of new and interesting beers. The advantage of not going to beer festivals is that I don't waste a day in a soul-destroying venue, in the company of absolute freaks, drinking poorly conditioned beer, before having to apologise profusely to those I've dragged along with me.
SIBA is the Society for Independent Brewers. As you can probably deduce from the name, it's a trade body for brewers. Purity Brewing Co is based in Warwickshire (website).
I'm busy with various things - not least the vulgar grind of preparing for a VAT return - so there's no time for blogging. Sorry about that. To keep you entertained, here's a photo of barman Eddie's successful attempt to balance three pint glasses in a tower. One of our favourite regulars, Percy, seems to have migrated to behind the jump in order to witness the spectacle at closer quarters. Friday night was very boozy.
Those of you who subscribe to Beers of the World will have seen a short, half-page piece by myself in the beer and food section. I realise now that the profile photo I sent them was inappropriate. I didn't know they'd print it that big. I hope my mum never sees it.
As usual, tonight's private party time, but I've had the rest of the day off. The early afternoon involved a very agreeable lunch in Lowlander, a Belgian brasserie on Drury Lane. The rest of the day's been devoted to some lounging and beerios up in the TV room.
Yesterday I tapped a cask of Shugborough Farmer's Half from somewhere in the Midlands. It's 4.8% golden ale that's chock-a-block with hoppy goodness. If the distributor's is to be believed, it was brewed in a tiny pilot plant in a stately home by the chaps at Titanic Brewery. I find that difficult to believe. If the batch size is so small, how can they afford to send casks my way? The pop I'm going to serve must have come from Titanic's kit in Stoke. No matter, it tastes bloody lovely. I've had a couple straight from the cask already. The couple who've chosen to hold their party here will have to tolerate a slightly tipsy landlord.
 Out-of-towners have complained to me before about the fact The Gunmakers doesn't open on weekends. Boo-hoo. Well, if that's prevented you from visiting before now, come down this Sunday, when the pub will be open from 12-5pm.
The annual Italian parade (formally, the Procession of Our Lady of Mount Carmel) is taking place in Clerkenwell, starting from the Italian church a few hundred yards from us. The Gunmakers is right in the middle of Eyre Street Hill, which will be closed to traffic for the day so a massive street party can kick off. Italian food stalls and entertainers will line the streets, and we'll be serving booze to the masses.
If you can get down here, you'll not only be able to enjoy our ale - we'll have Landlord, Harvey's and two guest beers - but you'll also be taking part in a real piece of London history.
Here are some more photos of the parade itself on Flickr. Although the pub is closed on weekends, you can book the place out for private functions. Details are on the website here. I'm pleased to say that four of our bookings have come from readers of this blog - including an upcoming wedding reception.
I grew up in the North. I've lived all my adult life in the South (Oxford is not in the Midlands). Read into that what you will. Judging by recent comments on this blog, it certainly winds some people up.
This evening, a couple of our regulars - bespoke tailors who work nearby - rocked up with a business associate for a pint. He stared at my handpumps in dismay and groaned out loud "oh, don't you have anything from the South? I don't drink Northern beers". Quite apart from the fact a fat Harvey's handpump was staring him in the face, we all found his attitude a tad extreme. This is a man who's taking the North/South divide too seriously.
Today's ales are Tim Taylor Landlord (West Yorkshire), Moorhouses Blond Witch (Lancashire), Mordue Workie Ticket (Tyne & Wear) and Harvey's Best (Sussex). I do tend to serve more beers from the North than the South, but that's by accident rather than by design.
To paraphrase Basil Fawlty, don't mention the (Algerian) War. That's a fairly good rule of thumb when engaging in kitchen banter with our chef. He's a Frenchman and holds some pretty strident views on certain matters. During quiet times, he's always got Le Monde open on the worktop.
Today he pointed out an ad in the newspaper placed by the French government. They've introduced a massive VAT cut for bars and restaurants: on July 1st, the rate was slashed from 19.6% to just 5.5%. Prices are falling across the board, as the benefits are passed on to consumers. That's got to boost trade, creating jobs and shoring up businesses that give people a place people to eat, drink and make merry, as opposed to sitting at home watching telly (have you seen French television?).
For me, this puts the debate about Britain's excessive alcohol duties into perspective. A targeted VAT cut on the French model would benefit the licensed trade far more, without leading to any suggestion that the authorities are failing to tackle this country's supposed "binge drinking" problem.
This is the first serious post I've written for some time. I haven't had a drink in three days. The two things are indubitably connected. That does it. I'm hitting the pop hard today.
I've written about Tennent's Super before. Here's the article. It's a superstrength lager from Scotland favoured by tramps (fitting, considering how many of London's homeless hail from north of the border). But in Italy, the InBev product enjoys a different profile: it's positively hip. I've spotted pumps dispensing it some fairly tasty bars and clubs. The marketing bods over there have succeeded in passing it off as a premium product. Pictured below is an example of their dark arts. I spotted this stencilled bit of graffiti in Rome's Trastevere a couple of weeks ago.
 The weather outside is frightful. I blame this cold, damp snap on those joyless, trogolodyte tossers who moaned about the heatwave. Bah. If you want to stay out of the rain tonight, come and visit The Gunmakers. Guest beers are Moorhouses Blond Witch and Mordue Workie Ticket.
Has anybody else noticed that the price of everything apart from their own ales is vastly inflated in Young's houses? Don't order a pint of Peroni. Don't order a rum and coke. You have been warned. It's nothing short of extortion for those of us with non-ale drinkers in the round.
Beer tasting notes are very often a bit cringe-worthy. I once called something a "toothsome splash" on this blog, and I've never heard the end of it from a couple of pals. It's hard to say essentially the same thing about a hundred different beers in a way that reads well. That's why I've largely given up.
An effort on Hip Hops - written by Eddie, one my bar staff, and his flatmate James - really did make me laugh. They describe St Austell Tribute as "unsurprisingly moist". Lovely stuff.
This week, my stewardship of this boozer has been a little like an extended Dean Martin impression. Am beginning to feel the effects. Thank Crunchie it's Friday.
I'm sitting upstairs, on the window sill, watching a classic episode of Only Fools and Horses. And I bust out laughing. And everyone outside the pub looks up. And I repeat what Delboy just said. And no-one laughs. Not getting laid tonight.
 Last summer we sold oodles of Hop Back Summer Lightning - the golden ale from Salisbury - here at The Gunmakers. It's returned to the bar for the rest of this season. It's a brilliant beer and you really should come down here today and start caning it. It's the brew that made Hop Back's name, and it still accounts for the bulk of their output. The brewery's celebrating the ale's 21st year in production, and have sent some point of sale gubbins our way. We've got the glassware, the beer towels and the bar mats. I love all that shit.
Also included in the box of tricks that arrived yesterday were a couple of t-shirts. Cask ale brewers seem to love giving out branded clothing, but why do they insist on supplying it in fat bastard sizes only? I didn't even know there was a size called "2XL", but apparently that's what we should be aspiring to. If you think you can fill out one of these tents, please come and collect your prize (the t-shirt, not the drastically reduced life expectancy).
Kudos to my pal Wee Rossie, who took the photograph outside The Gunmakers last September. Those were two of the last pints of Summer Lightning we served here in 2008.
I've just received an email from Jason, the hanky-waving Aussie who frequents this pub, to say the Westminster Morris Men will be performing this evening - in this heat - around the Baker Street area. Some of them are big lads. Those outfits have got to be pretty stuffy. This is going to be comedy. Details of their planned route are here.
Ravello has given its name to a thousand cafes and restaurants in this country, some of them less than lovely. It's a town that towers above the Amalfi coast, looking out on one side on the village of Minori, where we rented a house last week. I first visited five years ago. Few places have made more of an impression on me. This time, we were lashed by rain as we ascended - ears-popping - in an open top-bus. (What a mistake-a to make-a: the grey clouds that hung overhead as we hopped on board by Amalfi's harbour gave ample warning). Still, that serene central square didn't disappoint, with a duomo on one side and a sheer drop to a lush and green valley opposite. Neither did the glasses of Paulaner lager from Munich, sold to us by a cafe that peeks out from one corner of the piazza. As we enjoyed our beer, the rain stopped and the sun came out.
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