Reg Kingsly is a professional food critic who prefers a bar stool to a padded leather club chair. While Kingsly's career gives him the opportunity to eat the finest foods and enjoy the most expensive wines at the most exclusive restaurants, on his own time he prefers a pub with rickety bar stools , a frothy pint, classic pub grub and plenty of local colour.
One of the luxuries that comes with my post as a restaurant reviewer is crossing the country in search of fine dining experiences. There's something about sitting in the courtyard of a comfortable bed and breakfast on a sunny morning, enjoying a home-cooked breakfast of black pudding, bacon and eggs, all smothered in brown sauce and accompanied by a bucks fizz. The experience is just so civilized.
One of the dirty secrets of the food critic business is that we tire of eating decadent dishes all the time. It sounds very glamorous to think of being taxied from restaurant to restaurant, dining on the finest and freshest foods while being waited on hand and foot by staff desperate to earn a coveted three star rating. Starched linen tablecloths and napkins, chandeliers, tuxedo-clad waiters, silver cutlery and expensive china; and I don't have to pay a penny of the bill. While I certainly enjoy a six course meal accompanied by a bottle of vintage red wine, I frequently find myself craving a very different experience. That's where that little luxury I first mentioned really comes into play. You see, while my employer is shipping me around the countryside, I take advantage of my free time to explore, drink in the colour and history and, most importantly, indulge in my guilty pleasure: having a few pints and noshing in a common pub.
This puzzles many people. How can a chip butty and a pint of Newcastle consumed on top of an ancient bar, whilst perched on a rickety wooden stool, possibly compare to Beef Carpaccio accompanied by Artichoke and Parmesan Shavings and served with a glass of '95 vintage Quintarelli Amarone della Valpolicella Riserva at the Quadrato? Obviously we're talking about two very different experiences (not the least of which is the distinction between pleasure and work), but the best I can come up with is an expression the Americans use. Pub grub is comfort food to me. Sitting in an ancient brick building that's been serving generations of locals takes off some of the weight of the pretension I'm forced to adopt for my career. I can be one of the guys. I've run across my fair share of hostile pubs, but for the most part they're wonderful places. You can feel the patina of the years on the railings and, in some cases, see the grooves worn by thousands of feet in the wooden floors.
The Elephant and Castle isn't the Formosa, but given the choice, guess which one I'd be sitting in right now?
