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.
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