Pubs have, to my mind, never felt more like microcosms of the city’s broader social tussles and defining tensions. Which is to say that, London’s new wave boozers increasingly embody the desires of contrasting groups — gastropub traditionalists; stubbornly barnacled working-class regulars; young men that have turned quite liking Guinness into an entire personality — while managing the madness of trying to balance them all.
And so, I cannot say that it was a total surprise when, just after I’d enquired about ordering food amid the youthful scrum of The Earl of Derby in New Cross, I received a playful nudge to the ribs from a well-oiled stranger in a trilby. “Hope you’re ready to remortgage, mate,” he said with a croaking laugh. This prompted the lavishly moustached young manager behind the bar to amiably tell him to pipe down. “Nah, I’m only joking,” added Trilby, recanting instantly. “I’ve actually heard it’s quite good. Especially the steak.” His eyes went back down to the football game on his propped-up phone screen, as the din of a busy Saturday night went up a notch. “Was there a red card in this? I’m sure someone got sent off.”
