One pint of lager and a bittersweet kiss
The Griffin, 93 Leonard Street, London
There’s a good buzz about The Griffin, located along Leonard Street in the ever-trendy bustle of Shoreditch’s Old Street area.
Two o’clock on a warming Wednesday afternoon, I sip at my pint chased by a shot of Fernet Branca, served here on tap. The punters are stood in conversation along the bar or sat at the tables bathed in a summer’s day pouring through the windows. In the years I lived away for the UK, this is what I missed most. This is when the homesickness would sink in. I tried to placate it with a Guinness outside an Irish pub in a summertime Versailles, or over a pint in one of the many Frog pubs dotted across Paris. They still never came close to being here.
I longed for the traditional English pub; the banter in the background, the stereotypical landlord pacing behind the bar making sure the heads on pints don’t become too slim, tallying up the wastage from the drip trays before berating the bartenders for pouring money down the drain. Pubs, of course, have changed (hell, this one serves Fernet Branca on tap!), but that deeper breath that comes from being inside one—thoughts flowing freer or turning bleary and light as the ABV of blood-flows increase, the being present among others that can be so easily lost with the onslaught of the digital age—that remains the same.
It’s fitting that one of my favourite pubs is located in Shoreditch, a fair stone’s throw from the architectural bulk of the Truman Brewery. Founded in 1663 and growing to be one of the largest beer producers in the world by the end of the 19th century, the now closed brewery and its redbrick chimney overlooks the frenetic, constant motion along Brick Lane.
When the Duchess of Brunswick was born, in 1737, the Prince of Wales ordered four loads of faggots and a number of tar barrels to be burnt before Carlton House to celebrate the event, and directed the brewer to his household to place four barrels of beer near it for the those who chose to partake of the beverage, which certain individuals had no sooner done than they pronounced the liquor of an inferior quality; this declaration served as a signal for revolt; the mob threw the beer into each other's faces and the barrels into the fire. The Prince had the good nature to order a second bonfire on the succeeding night, and procured the same quantity of beer from another brewer, named Truman, with which the populace was pleased and satisfied.
Alfred Bernard, The Noted Breweries of Great Britain & Ireland. Vol III, p 175. 1889.
My go-to here is a pint of Schneider’s Bayrisch Hell, a traditional Bavarian lager, but in honour of Truman, I have opted for a tankard of Five Points Best, an East London brewed bitter. The arrival of cheaper imports and the changing preferences for lighter lagers in part helped bring about the collapse of Truman in the late 1980s. The brewery site, as with so many of London’s iconic structures (think Battersea Power Station), is now home to boutiques, eateries and cultural spaces. One thing has become many.
Pubs run deep in my life. At fourteen, I spent the summer holiday as a pot washer at The Alice Isle in the New Forest. It was a stark introduction to the world of work, scrubbing at the meat fat charred onto grill plates, mopping the floor after the chefs had left, cycling home through eerie un-lit lanes, dropping into a dead sleep before simply getting back on my bike the next day and repeating all over again. Hospitality work is made harder by the fact that one day’s solid graft doesn’t make the next any easier; each and every day, if the establishment is run efficiently and well-frequented, is just as gruelling as the last. In all my places of work over the last twenty-plus years, I have always carried the upmost respect for the humble kitchen porter. Rarely seen by the paying guest, these stalwarts are what enables service to continue flowing—without them, it would soon collapse.
I also once worked at The Griffin, albeit a little over 100 miles away from this one—The Griffin Inn along Monmouth Street in the limestone city of Bath. I tended bar in the spells when I returned to the UK from France. The gin craze was in full swing, and backbars across the country were overloaded with bottles of all colours, origins and botanical offerings. While growing tired of making G & Ts in ridiculous soup bowls of a glass, I nevertheless enjoyed being an integral part of the day for regulars who so frequently came to prop up the bar.
The bartender must wear many hats; not only an expert on the preparation and service of drinks, they are ad hoc life coaches and sounding-boards to punters’ woes or dilemmas, they are pros when it comes to rallying a spontaneous celebration around a job promotion, engagement or birth. The bartender should know the local area and attractions with the precision second only to a London cabbie, always happy to come up with suggestions for the travel weary or uninspired. They will have a good sense of the weather forecast and be conversant across the spectrum of sporting events, both near and far. They are adept at steering potentially flammable conversations, namely over politics or Brexit, towards less incendiary terrain. They can wipe away the latest social media conspiracies that pour over the bar as easy as mopping-up spilt beer.
The great institution of the pub has been up against it, it has suffered all the same hardships I outlined in my election day special. I still wince as headlines continue to report scores of pubs being forced to ring-out last orders for good. All I know is that a world without the humble pub is a terrible thought.
‘Do you want another one?’ A chap in suit, unbuttoned shirt, no tie, asks his friend.
He walks to the bar carrying their empties, and the age old ritual of pouring a pint begins.
If I was forced to choose a temple where I could reflect on the majesty of life, the pub, most likely this one, would be it.
