Saunders's Pub Recommendations
Post 1 — The Lamb, Bloomsbury Right then, darlings. Let me tell you about The Lamb. The Lamb is in Bloomsbury, which is a part of London that thinks too highly of itself by half but is, on balance, where some of the better drunks have always lived. It's Victorian, it's Grade II listed, it has snob screens — for those of you who've not been paying attention, snob screens are the little frosted privacy panels at the bar that let you order a drink without the bartender having to look at your face, which is, in my professional opinion, the single greatest contribution the nineteenth century made to civilisation. The pints are good. The pies are better. The service is unbothered, which is what you want from a London pub. If a London pub is too pleased to see you, somebody's stolen something. I have, in my time, passed out in The Lamb roughly fourteen times. I have been ejected from The Lamb seven times. I have been re-admitted the following morning every single time, because Maureen runs the bar and Maureen is, despite her many opinions, a darling. There is an angel who drinks here on Wednesdays. He sits at the back, has half a pint of bitter, reads the Guardian, and leaves. Nobody bothers him. Nobody knows he's an angel. I'm not going to ruin that for him, so I won't say which angel. But if you go on a Wednesday and you see someone who looks too well-dressed for the room and is reading too slowly, be kind. He's been having a bad century. Saunders's rating: four broomsticks out of five. (Loses one because the toilet door sticks, and once, in 1983, I got trapped in there for an hour. Maureen is aware. Maureen has done nothing.)
Post 2 — The Poetic Goat, Old Compton Street Now look. I know what you're going to say. Saunders, the Poetic Goat doesn't come up on Google Maps, why are you recommending a pub I can't find. And to that I say: shut your face, bitch, and walk down Old Compton Street with the right intentions, and you'll see it. The Goat is, on the level, a working pub. There is a real Denise. She really has been there since 1953. The Irish coffee really is the best in Soho. The caramel squares are, as I write, in increasingly short supply due to a supply-chain matter Denise refuses to discuss, but when they're in, they're in, and you should buy seven and eat them in front of her. The Goat has certain understandings with certain parties. I will not name the parties. I am a witch. I am not a fool. But what I will say is that if you are sitting in a back booth and the air goes cold and someone you have never seen before sits opposite you and orders a whiskey you didn't see arrive, you have not had too much. You have, on balance, had exactly the right amount, and you are about to learn something. Lean in. The goat on the sign is staring at the middle distance with the expression of something that has tried Wordsworth and formed strong views. I love her. I named my last broom after her. Saunders's rating: five broomsticks out of five. (House rules.)
Post 3 — The Spaniards Inn, Hampstead Right, the Spaniards. Where do I begin. The Spaniards Inn is in Hampstead, which means you will need to take a taxi back at the end of the night because the Tube is a rumour up there and the buses are operated by the Vatican on a sliding-scale prayer schedule. Build that into your budget. The pub itself is from sixteen-something. Low ceilings. A beer garden that's actually a beer garden. A fireplace in the winter that is genuinely a fireplace and not the heritage approximation of one. Ghosts. It has a famous ghost. It has, on the record, more than one famous ghost. They are all benign. They have all been told to behave by the management, which in this case is also me. Dick Turpin used to drink here. Dick Turpin owes me money. Dick Turpin has owed me money since 1734 and he is no longer in a position to do anything about it, which is — and let this be a lesson to all of you — the single best position to be in vis-à-vis a person who owes you money. You cannot collect from the dead, but the dead also cannot lie to you about whether they have it. The Sunday roast is exceptional. The wine list is unambitious but honest. There is a parrot. Do not ask about the parrot. Saunders's rating: four and a half broomsticks out of five. (The half is for Dick Turpin. He knows what he did.)