Charles T.
Yelp
Disclaimer: I am writing this drunk, which is really the only accurate way to review a pub.
If one is to comment on pubs, one must not do so from the inoffensive safety of the United States. I realize now, upon looking back at my history of pubgoing and bargoing, that even the most 'Accurate English' pub stateside is a construction, related to the original in the same way Disneyland is related to Grimm's tales - sanitized, scrubbed of all unsavory elements and thus all wonder, once one has seen the true article.
I came to England with no purpose in mind. I'd never seen any of the monuments, never wandered through Madam Tusseaud's or the Tower of London, and didn't have any intention to, really. What I had kept in the back of my mind was the culture and pre-globalization remnants of said. I realized at a certain point that all of this was going away, and rapidly, and that I needed to catch it before it was gone.
I suppose it was this impulse that drove me to take a train to Moreton-in-Marsh, then to walk the four long, uphill miles to Stow-on-the-Wold, a place that has in most other aspects, been struck low by a self-conscious blight of tourist attractions and antique shops. A few antediluvian relics remain - solid sandstone houses line unevenly-asphalted streets, centered about a church and church hall whose social preeminance rivals that of the pub I will (eventually) get around to reviewing.
Upon my arrival, hot and sorefooted, I was confronted by a crowd of retirees who puttered about the city square pointedly not spending their money on the various knicknacks on offer. I showered and found a room in the Hostel, then wandered over to the pub to see what was available.
Perhaps it's an indication of my naïvité that I arrived at dinnertime with the expectation of food, perhaps of the work of some shrewd marketeer who has outmaneuvered me and created a ruse so ingenious that I can't (or don't wish to) see through it. I'd rather believe, though, that the proprietors of the Queen's Head merely realized that nobody served traditional English food in the area anymore and decided to add such cuisine to the repertoire of notable aspects the Pub holds. In any case, I stumbled tiredly through an order for steak and kidney pudding, then added one of the two award-winning Real Ales the barman (both aged and affable enough to be my grandfather) expertly pulled for me, raising the pint trickling foam onto the bar towels.
The ale (described as 'best bitter' or 'special bitter' depending on the variety) was smooth, light and not too cold to gulp, the pudding salty and brimming with more kidney than either steak or gravy, (compliments to the cook here, an abundance of sweetmeats is the ideal) accompanied by carrots and string beans. The sticky ginger was hot and fresh and an amazing cap to the meal. All through, dogs wandered in close orbit of their owners and the polite murmur of conversation became progressively more racuous and joyful over the course of my meal, as the daytrippers piled into their Range Rovers and BMWs and made for home, their absences filled by locals in cheaper domestics. For my own part, I sit here in the backyard of YHA Stow, watching somewhat blurrily as the sun sets on an unseasonably warm April day, listen to the doves purr and the blackbirds quarrel in the trees above me, and am glad for a pub either so un-selfconscious as to remind me that pub culture isn't yet dead, or a fake so good at its showmanship that it made me want to believe. Either way, I'm satisfied.
