I was out with a mate one evening when she asked where I’d like to go. My response was immediate: “A pub with no atmosphere.” I cannot think of anywhere better. You get served straight away, you get a seat and, if you’re really lucky, there’s no music. Seriously, what’s not to like?
First things first: by “pub”, I mean the old-fashioned type, with carpets that stick to the soles of your shoes – no gastropub nonsense. I’m still fuming from the time I ordered fish and chips in one of these (unbeknown to me) gastropubs. It’s a simple meal; a British staple. How can you get that wrong? Well first, the fish and peas arrived on a slate slab (an item, by all rights, I should only come across in my dad’s shed). I’m no physicist, but if a dish contains peas, then having a totally flat surface to place them on is not ideal. Worse, for some inexplicable reason the chips had been separated from the fish and placed in a metal container, which, as I discovered when I foolhardily attempted to pick it up, was hot enough to cause third-degree burns. When I quite reasonably asked if they could not just bung everything on a plate, the look of disdain would have you believe I had asked the barman if I could abduct his first-born child.
