While perched inside what felt like a repurposed bookshelf at the draughty back end of the Shaston Arms, sitting next to the dumb waiter and waiting for the ping to herald the arrival of my £16 plate of red mullet with squid ink rice, I had time to consider yet again the so-called “pub revival” in cool modern hospitality. Old boozers are reclaimed, reloved and restored, and the great tradition of going down the pub is celebrated. The Devonshire in nearby Piccadilly is, of course, the daddy, the Darth Vader of this trend, winning plaudits, TikTok adoration and celebrity fans aplenty. So it’s no wonder that myriad other hospitality operators have cast an eye over their local neglected fleapit and thought: “Let’s buy some Mr Sheen, give that old hovel a polish and start serving duck à l’orange and flourless chocolate tart. It’s all the rage! Gen Z loves it!”
Whether Gen Z really does love anything about the pub experience as it was in the 20th century is debatable, however, because inside these poshed-up spit-and-sawdust boozers, all the phlegm and fag ash has gone – as have the dartboards, pool tables, punch-ups, topless women on KP peanut pub cards and the ever-present bar-fly alcoholic drinking himself yellow while droning on about his marital problems. “It’s a pub just like pubs used to be,” proclaim many of these places, of which the Shaston near Carnaby Street is a great example. But those old pubs had jukeboxes blaring problematic ballads by Tom Jones, and a snug bar with a shag tartan carpet where the womenfolk could nestle with their glass of Dubonnet because we weren’t quite welcome in the saloon bar, and especially not if we asked for a pint.
