Bike Discos, Americans, Black Pudding and Whisky in the Marquis of Westminster

The Marquis of Westminster can be found at 50 Warwick Way  London SW1V 1RY

Are you sitting comfortably? Foaming ale topped up and ready to go? Bottle of wine uncorked and chilled to perfection? Excellent. Then let us begin.

The Marquis of Westminster on Warwick Way appeals to one of my friends for the simple reason that it is within spitting distance of his house. So after a long day at the proverbial coalface we strolled in to ‘blow the froth off a few’. The place was packed to the rafters with overly loud, self-absorbed folk with ties all akimbo and pints of lager and lime settled on their tables. It took us an age to get served; sadly the bar staff that day forgot not only the order of customers, but correct prices and change. Not that they weren’t friendly and accommodating all the while.

Burrowing through the immovable mass of bodies we burst out into the evening sunshine and settled out on the pavement where numerous picnic benches had been laid out near the road. The pavements of Pimlico are thankfully wide enough for us to sit in peace and watch the world go by as we supped on ultimately quite disappointing beer.

We decided therefore that single malts were the way to go. You can’t mess that up and The Marquis has a finer and wider selection than most pubs. So we settled back with our drinks, watching one of those bizarre cycle discos go past (you know the thing – hordes of lycra-clad loons covered in flashing lights riding down the street, loud techno music pumping out from huge beatboxes interspersed through this modern cavalry charge, the occasional skateboarder trying to keep up – looks like a laugh, sort of). Then, from behind us, came the dulcet tones of an American accent.

“Excuse me, but do you know where we could buy some black pudding?”

I saw my friend wince. He is not an enormous fan of interruptions from strangers  nor does he hold a particularly high opinion of black pudding, tourists or Americans. Turning around I beheld a middle aged couple smiling patiently and awaiting my answer. I glanced at my watch.

“In fairness, at ten to ten at night, I would be hard pressed to find somewhere but I’d be really hard pressed to find a place I could honestly recommend.”

We chatted for a while on the delights of late night newsagents’ black pudding, on the merits of enjoying it in a proper greasy spoon and what to expect from a Weatherspoons breakfast at Heathrow Airport (hangover required basically).

We soon became firm friends of these university lecturers from Tampa and had soon introduced them to the British custom of “rounds”.

And when their turn came they were once again educated on the wonders of Scottish Single Malt Whisky. What had been intended as a couple of quiet drinks between two friends soon escalated into a full on lesson on Scotch. Starting at one end of the bar we drank our way from Inverness to Islay. We deliberated on Blends and their unfairly poor reputation. We compared the smoky peatiness of the Laphroaig to the sweet fruits of a Blair Athol.

When they finally left, long after last order, to get some sleep before their 7am flight home the next morning (!) my friend and I were left with eyes slightly bleary, heads slightly fuzzy but with that warm feeling of pride at a job well done. Savouring the last few sips we watched the bike disco roar past again before heading home. 

Late for a Date at The Harp

Greetings my merry band of sippers, quaffers and slurpers!

My profuse apologies for allowing this blog to become so dusty with inactivity. Clearly I haven’t been out drinking enough! However, this next establishment is one that cannot be missed on any trip to the bustling metropolis of London. I speak, of course, of The Harp, a pub that last year won the prestigious Britain’s Best Pub Award, a pub that is forever bustling with custom. Perfectly placed between Trafalgar Square and The Strand, this small, narrow, busy pub is run with aplomb by its Irish landlady (who took out the “Welsh” part of the pub’s name when she took it over, cheeky thing!)

On the ground floor you squirm through the accommodating press of bodies to a bar that boasts both a plethora of draft ales and also an array of fridges bursting with great jugs of potent West Country cider with amusing names and terrifying ABV’s. The bar staff are courteous if a little squashed and busy and always serve with a smile and in the correct order. Upstairs, there are comfortable armchairs by the window where you can escape the loud pub atmosphere of the main bar and watch the world go by beneath you. There’s even a back entrance, leading into a dark and smoky alley that feels like it belongs a hundred years in the past (or it would if there weren’t theatre-goers and suits having a crafty fag out there.

The clientele is always a rich mix: actors and audiences from the West End, hedge fund managers from Mayfair, real ale connoisseurs from all over and the occasional tourist counting his blessings. For this reason I had reasoned a few months back, fool that I was, that this would be a cracking place to meet a date. Two things go wrong however. Her phone runs out of battery before I arrive and, due to a disaster at work, I arrive an hour late. I fly into the pub, dishevelled and disturbed. Surely she wouldn’t have waited that long? No one’s that patient! To my expected disappointment there is no sign of her. I lean on the bar to catch my breath.

“You meeting someone here?” comes a voice from next to me.

“I was,” I gasp with a heavy heart.

“Young lady? Brunette? Reading a book?”

“Yes,” I cautiously reply, looking up.

“Yeah, she left a while back. Good thing too. I was just about to hit on her myself!”

I check my phone just in case.

Didn’t you use to work at The Royal Oak?” the man asks.

“I did, yes.” I look at the man, recognition crawling across my face. “It’s Mike, isn’t it?”

“Yes. You look like you could do with a beer.”

“Certainly could.”

“Two pints please. Why didn’t you call her?”

“Her phone was dead. I’ll have to find some internet, send her an e mail or something.”

“You can use my phone. That’s got e mail.”

I grasp at the opportunity as I grasp for my pint.

“Really? That would be incredibly kind!”

“Don’t mention it.”

Four hours and several pints later and The Harp is closing. I have had an exhaustive e mail conversation with my date who is only slightly irritated (remarkable really how forgiving people are) and an even more exhaustive conversation with Mike, a past regular from my bartending days. I forget what we talked about exactly: life in general, The British Empire, elephants, falling off bridges in Edinburgh. I do remember, though, that our conversations attracted the attention of most of the bar and that we were among the last to leave.

Though the evening did not match up to its original possibilities it was still a fine pub experience and, rest assured dear readers, I was half an hour early for the next date with that poor unfortunate woman!

The Harp is found at 47 Chandos Pl  London WC2N 4HS