Losing Confidence in Cask?

I was in Scotland week before last and as usual, in the land of Tennents Lager, was wary about choosing cask beer where there was any. My experience, even in high turnover places like Wetherspoons, is that it can be hit or miss and more often than not, it misses.  As it happens, my first opportunity, fresh off the train was in the Counting House off George Square and it was hot, so looking at the pump clips with an array of dark Scottish beers, I decided, given the heat, that I wasn't chancing it and enjoyed instead - and I did - a couple of pints of keg. More of that later.

That night in the Captain James Lang, another JDW house, I thought, having spotted that Loch Lomond Brewery's Southern Summit was on the pumps, that I'd give it a go. It was only £1.79 and actually fairly good.  Alas when I returned to the bar, it had gone. I chose Skye Blonde and was immediately, before I'd go it to my mouth, assailed by a distinct whiff of vinegar.  I pointed this out to the barperson who had obviously read the Book of Barkeep Excuses.  "I think" she posited "it's meant to taste like that". Moving on to page 2 of the tome she added "I don't drink beer myself".   I was though given an exchange and turned down the offer of a whisky flavoured 7.8% beer from Strathven - despite it also being £1.79 a pint - in favour of a bottle. Minimum pricing? Take that Scottish Government.

I was in Helensburgh next day meeting an old pal. Alas in the Henry Bell, there was no cask I wanted to drink. All were around 4.8% and brown. As the barmaid herself, a Northern Irish lass of some character, noted "They could do with something pale and hoppy on, that's what I drink". Put her in charge of the cellar I say.  I did take her wise words on board as I stood wondering what to have. "Don't have the Tennents" my sage advised, "it's really shite."  This lass will go far or at least, ought to.

The day after my sister took me out for an hour. We went to the Balloch Hotel on Loch Lomondside, me having noted that it has a wide choice of real ales.  Of course it wouldn't be a Tandleman day out if some idiocy hadn't occurred.  The bar as you enter is L shaped with a bank of five handpumps immediately on your left. On the wall facing is the sign in the photo. My sister sat and I surveyed the wickets. "I'll have the Adnams" I thought. A few moments passed and I looked up the bar to the corner of the L. No barperson appeared but an old soak on a barstool shouted along the other angle of the bar and after a while a barmaid appeared. She seemed annoyed. "You should have come up to where the tills are quoth she."  "Are there more cask beers there then? I enquired. "No" she said "but I stand up there." This was getting interesting, but she had the last laugh. Only two handpumps were on. I chose London Pride which was a little tired but OK. This place is owned by Mitchell's and Butlers as a matter of interest.

On my return to Glasgow Central I had a pint in the Counting House again. This time I went for cask in the shape of Oakham JHB. That distinct whiff and then taste of vinegar again.  On pointing this out the server called a colleague, presumably the cask beer champion or something along these lines.  He took a straw out, dipped it in my beer and allowed a drop to roll onto his tongue."Hops" he pronounced. "And something else."  I agreed and pointed out the something else was vinegar.  My duff pint was exchanged for, yes you've guessed it. Keg.

Right I'm getting a bit fed up of reading this myself, but I am sure you get my drift by now.  Dodgy beer and dodgy bar staff don't make for a great combination.  It's the offer Stupid. If that isn't up to snuff, then you are on a loser.

I rather liked the beer pictured above from Jaw Brew whom I haven't even heard of. Really decent, though you do have to knock a bit of the CO2 out. I had it both visits and despite the murk, it didn't disappoint. Oh and I'm not losing confidence in cask really, but rubbish cask makes others do so.

For those that know Glasgow, I understand, Camperdown Place, another JDW just 50 yards away from the Counting House, has now closed due to Queen St Station redevelopment. Shame, as for the traveller with a suitcase, its ground floor toilets were a boon even if the beer choice was less extensive.

Kentish Capers

One of the things I do like is travelling by train. I come from a railway family and somehow it really is in the blood. Short or long, I like to bash a bit of track and keep my eye on which type of unit is at the front end.  As well as meeting Erlanger Nick for a bummel round some Kentish pubs, I get a chance to take the Javelin (BR Class 395 don't you know), to deepest Kent. Fast and comfortable, and with my Senior Railcard, under 20 of your British pounds, what's not to like?

Our first destination was Whitstable, a place I didn't know at all, never having been there, but for Nick with his extended Thanet fetish, familiar territory. The weather was warm, I was on time, Nick was on time, so we set off through some attractive suburbia, heading for our first micropub of the day and what a good one it was too.  The Tankerton Arms is a converted shop of some kind on a High St, rectangular inside with a few nice bits of ephemera and the beer at the back behind a plastic curtain, where it is stillaged in a cool room.  We chose Kent Session Pale Ale and sat outside on the sole table, watching old ladies rummage through the outside display of the charity shop next door and other folks doing their shopping at the butcher's opposite. It was all very Warmington on Sea. So good was the beer and so comfortable the spot that we had a second before setting off for a fairly long walk to the next pub.

Hotel Continental is on the the sea front.  Inside all was modern, spick and span and spotlessly clean. Beers from Whitstable Brewery were procured, both keg and cask and all were pretty good, as was the charming service and welcome from the two barmaids-cum-waitresses.  We sat outside while Nick enjoyed some oysters. The Oyster Stout though was a disappointment. Served on CO2, it was headless and dull. Stick it on nitro and it would be transformed. Just say"no" to CO2 served stouts. They are dull as ditchwater. Despite the headless beer - all of it was - we left with some reluctance, not least of all because of the welcome.  It does work you know.

Next a mistake.  I liked the look of the Pearson's Arms just off the sea front.  Two staff were busy mixing cocktails as we sat at the bar. Neither looked up.  Much farting about took place and in a pub, otherwise empty apart from a young couple, both in turn went off upstairs where presumably others were awaiting their mixed drinks. As they came back neither acknowledged us again until I piped up. It had been seven and a half minutes without so much as a nod in our direction and no real apology for the omission either.  We had a half each of Harvey's Best, which was, unsurprisingly, below par. Piss poor all round.  We couldn't get out fast enough.

No such disappointment at the The Old Neptune, right on the sea. This is a clapperboarded delight and again the welcome was a warm one.  We struck up a conversation with a delightful old man who had come on a commission to paint the pub. No, not with emulsion and gloss, but with oils.  Astonishingly Nick sort of knew him from a forthcoming gallery exhibition in Broadstairs.  This time the beer was spot on and two pints of Harveys Best later, we left, having had a great experience. It's the offer as I always say and this was cracking.

It all gets a bit disjointed after that. We visited The Peter Cushing, a JDW house where we duly experienced horror in the shape of two vinegary beers and a poor soul with a new tattoo of his just deceased brother's name on his arm. We commiserated with him as he explained further turmoil was imminent, as said tattoo had been expressly forbidden by his wife. We left our companion to his thoughts, me reflecting that all life can be found in the pub.  Two more pubs for Whitstable though. One I can't remember, but was ordinary though pleasant enough I recall, and finally, the Black Dog, a micropub, where we had a nice chat to the barman and I agreed to disagree on cloudy beer.

Then to Margate, which I hadn't been to for many a year. Brilliant sunshine greeted us and we walked past a godawful, East European-like eyesore of a block of flats by the station. What were they thinking of when they gave that monstrosity planning permission? Skirting the front we walked to the harbour and the Harbour Arms.  This micropub did nothing for me, nor did the stinking mud of the harbour, so I'll draw a veil over it. Nick quite liked it though.

Last stop was to meet Nick's Mrs (and their dog Tabor.)  Becky is always an absolute delight and we snaffled the table for three under the open window of The Two Halves, which was buzzy, busy and just very good indeed.  We caught up with each other while Tabor the dog made friends. We watched the sun go down until I had to go for my train. By this time I was drinking Rhubarb Cider because I could.

I may have nodded off once or twice on the way back to St Pancras, but I was actually relatively sober by the time I reached Tandleman Towers (South).

Oddly, we only really had two bad pubs beer wise. Most were actually good to very good, but it really is the welcome that sets pubs apart. 

Kent - well this part of it anyway is a delight. I can see why Nick likes it though the bugger is always lucky with weather.  Unlike me.

It's the Offer Stupid

It is a decent 20 minutes walk from the excellent Laurieston Bar (see below) to Macgregors Pie and Ale Howff, the next recommendation from@robsterowski for my recent trip to Glasgow.  The walk is very relaxing, taking you as it does back over the river, through a little of the main shopping area and then into one of the oldest parts of Glasgow, the Trongate - which is well worth a look from anyone - and hence into High St and after a wrong turn, into Blackfriars St.  The pub itself impresses from the outside, but inside it is a bit poky and gloomy.  Still I have nothing against poky and gloomy, as that could easily describe my beloved local and I like that rather a lot.

Inside three people were at the end of the bar chatting noisily to the barman, who took his time to disengage and come over. I ordered a pint of Inveralmond Ossian from the four, or was it five handpumps and noted with approval that the barman was one handedly splashing beer from the pump into a glass balanced on the drip tray. "Good" I thought "he's clearing the line of old beer as nobody is drinking it."  Mistake. He wasn't. This unappealing liquid was my (short measure) pint. Before I could summon up the words to say anything I was relieved of around four quid and the barman returned to his pals. The beer was insipid and I left a fair bit of it and slunk out, glancing back as I did so. Nobody noticed. I hadn't really existed for them in the first place, a fact I was all too aware of.

Reading various reviews of this place, I realise two things. Most of the praise is for the pies, which get a very good press and which, along with a choice of cask beer, is the main focus here and indeed inspires the pub's name.  Now I realise fully that I may just have been unlucky and it was that quiet spot in the mid afternoon, but I shouldn't have felt so unwelcome.  The barman wouldn't of course have known that he'd play host to a blogger on a day out, but then shouldn't he show just a little more interest in the only customer who was there other than his pals?  Maybe talk me through the beer or something? I reckon so.

So, nothing much to see here at all. Most of all the "offer" was absent. I won't be back. Why would I?  They didn't even ask me if I fancied a pie?

I won't say for a second "Don't go there".  Hopefully it was just a one-off but it wasn't a remotely pleasant experience.  Fortunately my next two recommendations from Rob were excellent.  Three out of four isn't that bad.

The pies do look very good on various websites. I rather fancy a breakfast pie, or the haggis neeps and tatties one.

Augustiner Bräustuben and the Hofbräuhaus

Funnily enough in the many times I've been to Munich, I've never visited the Augustiner Bräustuben. I'd heard it was good of course and knew people who'd been there, but not me.  Last week our hotel was just a few minutes walk away and we thought we'd take a look.  We went on Tuesday night, though on the same morning we'd had a quick recce. Just a normal street corner local I thought, though probably bigger inside. We returned later, after many miles of walking and two or three half litres of helles in a very small kneipe nearby, where we drank cheap Hofbrau beer and sat nonchalantly as a couple of German lads threw darts at an electronic dartboard, just centimetres from our heads. Fortunately they were good and no darts rebounded, but we weren't as comfortable as we acted.  Stiff upper lip and all that.

Man does not though live by beer alone, though I've been known to give it a jolly good try.  The sky had greyed up and rain was spitting intermittently, when about eight o'clock we entered the Bräustuben. Bloody Hell.  It was not only massive, but filled to the rafters with jolly Germans scooping it down and scoffing enormous plates of pork. There must have been several hundred of them. And us.  A friendly waiter wedged us on the edge of a bench, delivered us of Augustiner Edelstoff and left us to it.  I looked around at a scene that has become familiar over the years. Germans eating out in droves on a midweek night.  We ate and drank well that night in a great atmosphere despite having to have many incorrect items (cheerfully) removed from the bill.

The day before when we arrived, we walked through the streets; me to re familiarise myself and Mike to see for the first time.  Our first pint was in Augustiner am Platzl, opposite the Hofbräuhaus.  It is a fair size, but boy was it busy. We perched at the end of a table, but just had one. It really wasn't that comfortable, though it didn't seem to bother the locals who ate uncomfortably balanced on high stools, while all sorts brushed past.  Mike doesn't eat meat, which makes life tricky in Germany. He looked up the Hofbräuhaus on the internet and there was two or three veggie dishes on the menu and we were hungry. "Could we go there?" Of course. It isn't everyone's cup of tea, but it is mine.  Normally. Now this is one huge place and it was rammed, though we did eventually find a seat after ten minutes or so.  Our waiter wasn't at all jolly and was mostly absent and smelling strongly of smoke when he did return. We talked to a couple of Swiss folks on our table and we (and they) waited interminably for our beer and interminably for our food, though Mike was doomed to cheese and bread, as all cooked veggie options were off.  It was a better visit last year, but I get the feeling that complacency has set in, waiter wise, though to be fair, my roast pork in paprika cream sauce and spaezle was delicious.

There's a lot of money in Munich.. Everywhere was the same. In midweek nights, it was packed and not just with tourists either, though it seemed to me, a keen observer of the German pub scene, that in some areas at least that hospitality and service was sorely lacking, even if customers certainly were not.

And my old favourite Hofbräu Dunkel seemed thin and unappealing, though maybe that was the poor experience. It was a good night though on Tuesday at the Bräustuben even if we did get pissed wet through on leaving. 

More Sharp Practice

Sometimes pubs just don't help themselves do they.? Fast on the heels of my previous post about warm glasses, I was out in Manchester with E and two friends discussing the finer points about next week's Munich trip. (Seems we'll drink some beer in beer kellers assuming the right weather).

We started off in Pie and Ale where the beer though excellently kept, wasn't to our taste on that occasion. No issue with that - it's just the luck of the draw. We had no plan,so adopted the simple expedient of going to the nearest good pub, in this case a bar. Five handpumps in front of us and three turned round. The  verycharming barmaid explained that nobody present knew how to change a cask, so if we came back in an hour, we'd have a full choice. This at six o'clock on a Friday evening. Really? We didn't fancy the strong beers on offer, so took her advice and returned later where a full array of beers sorted us out. But it isn't that good is it?

In the meantime we went to a much lauded craft ale bar. The cask beers were to our liking. I chose a pint of one and E a half of a different one. I saw some jiggery pokery going on under the bar however. I tiptoed higher and saw at once what was occurring. E's half had been poured to within a inch of the top from a full glass on the driptray and was being "brightened" by a a sparkler. The beer was warm and flat. I mentioned his sleight of hand to the barman. He said "I'd just poured the pint by mistake and didn't want to waste it." I said that it meant my wife had a poor drink because of it and was therefore paying for his mistake. He shrugged but didn't offer to replace it. I didn't want a fuss so said no more. You don't come to the pub for a confrontation as I've said before.E was unimpressed.

In the first case, not ensuring that staff know how to change beers is amateurish. In the second, it is just bad practice.  You don't make the customers pay for staff mistakes and if unwise enough to get caught doing so, you should apologise and sort it out.

I must be getting soft in my old age by not naming names, but maybe I can be persuaded if readers deem it essential.  There are clues in the text though.

Who's Next?

When I was much younger, as I've mentioned before, I trained as a barman under an old school boss. You had to do it right, first time, every time, or you got a bollocking. It was a good training though for subsequent years and why I am sometimes critical of barstaff.  You see. I really do know how it should be done.

I was reminded of this when in the pub on Friday and was passed over more than once by the same barmaid, who always asked "Who's next? before serving the person directly in front of her, no matter whether they'd been waiting minutes or seconds. I was taught to look around as I was serving and acknowledge customers and advise them of their place in the invisible queue.  It isn't difficult, just requiring the most basic of observational skills. I'll be brushing up on it soon at the GBBF if you want to put me to the test. The lazy "Who's next? " is to me an annoying example of the indifferent service we often get in pubs.

Trust me on this one. What you don't want to hear from barstaff is "Who's next?" You want to hear "You're next".

And don't get me started on "You all right there?"  It is more or less the standard question you are asked at the bar now.

It's Not (Just) the Price

What puts you off getting yourself down the pub?  "The price of drinks"  I hear you cry as one. "Why pay more when I can get jolly well sloshed at home for a mere fraction of the cost?"   That's the standard thinking is it not? Well you'd be wrong.  It seems it isn't four quid plus a pint that is putting many of us off, but according to a recent Mintel report, it's the shitty bogs.

Well not just the shitty bogs, although 53% of people questioned moan about that, but funnily enough, customers actually do care about some of the things I've been banging on about since God was a boy.  People (47%) cite "poor customer service" as one of the main reasons not to go to a pub, along with the unwelcoming atmosphere(44%).  It isn't a neutral thing how you treat people.  They really do notice. We can't forget high prices though.  A not inconsiderable 35% thought high drink prices a deterrent, along with  24% feeling the cost of grub is too high - but the point is that it isn't what they care about most.

Now aren't these astonishing figures?  It seems that nearly half of people interviewed find that poor service and welcomes deter them from going to the pub.   Equally amazingly, 85% of respondents did not cite distance as a factor in going to the pub. In other words, people will travel to a good pub as it fulfils their expectation of what a pub should be like and presumably they enjoy themselves when they get there. Maybe some should ponder that when they look at their empty pubs?

It really is time that pubs sorted this aspect out.  Can there really be an excuse for poor welcomes, bad service and dirty toilets?  None of these things should really cost too much put right.  Failure to so so is a massive own goal. When we hear publicans moan about prices and PubCos (usually in the same breath) and demands for level playing fields, it seems, that the answer in part at least, is in their own gift according to their customers.   I've said it before and will say it again.  Put your own house in order first.  Lead by example and demand that your staff are attentive and responsive. Ensure they say "hello" and "goodbye".  The odd "thank you" wouldn't go amiss either.  Oh and don't forget to clean the toilets. It seems your (potential) customers really do notice these things and when they don't meet expectations, they vote with their feet.

To sum up.  It's the offer Stupid!  Forget that at your peril.  The future belongs to pubs that really do make it worthwhile to go there.

The Morning Advertiser has the details here - without my rant.

Service? What Service?

 There is only one boss. The customer. And he can fire everybody in the company from the chairman on down, simply by spending his money somewhere else.
 
Sam Walton


Readers of this blog will know that I think the pub industry needs to up its collective game in terms of how they treat their customers. Seems a lot of customers agree with me. Retail Eyes surveyed 6,523 consumers on which sector delivers the best customer service — just 6% said the pub and bar sector delivered good service.

Let's think about that for a moment. Six percent. It isn't good is it? The reasons given are so simple, obvious and easily corrected, it makes you annoyed just to think about it. Customers (oddly enough) disliked dirty and uncleared tables. They resented waiting too long at the bar and staff who were disinterested, or didn't engage with them. No less than 56% have walked out without buying anything because of this type of thing, losing pubs business immediately and no doubt for the long term.

One publican commenting (fairly alone among those who blamed lack of support from PubCos, low wages, better prospects elsewhere and the smoking ban!!)said, wisely I think, "It costs nothing to smile and be attentive. A good pub will have staff smiling, and importantly looking at the customers, registering they know who is next. I've been in the trade for forty years, and if there is one thing I still find irritating it's the lack of customer care, having said that, it comes from the top, no such thing as bad staff, it's bad managers. It hurts but the survey is very accurate."

Amazing when you think about it. It really isn't that difficult to train people in the basics and it isn't much more than the lack of these basics people are complaining about. Employing untrained, slapdash staff is just giving profits away and speeding up the rush to the supermarket.  Not correcting that is a suicide policy

Time for houses to be put in order I'd say.

Bonnie Gallowa'

Dumfries and Galloway is Scotland's overlooked corner. People zoom past it on the way to Glasgow, Edinburgh and the North, but it is stunningly beautiful, with neat little towns and villages that time has changed little. I (sort of) come from there. My grandparents lived in Castle Douglas until they died and my mother until she married and I spent all my summers there. It is brilliant, friendly and the beer is crap.

I took E there on a couple of nights of sentimental journey. It's the sort of thing you do as you get older and the reaper's figure is no longer such a speck in the distance. These things can be disappointing, but not here. CD is (externally) virtually unchanged, except for the Tesco which replaces the Railway Station, scandalously closed down by Beeching in 1964, taking my grandfather's job as signalman with it and some might say, his life too.

One thing CD didn't have when I was young, was a brewery. Sulwath Brewery is in the former home of Smart the Bakers. It doesn't tell you that, but I know. It has a neat little shop cum pub which dispenses brewery apparel, bottles and, from the bar, cask beer. That's the good bit. The bad bit is that frankly, the beer is pretty ordinary. Two cask ales were available on both days we called in. Black Galloway is a porter with potential, but had a sourish edge which was way too acetic for my palate, while The Grace was a so-so bitter of no distinguishing features, which did little for me. On both visits the place was full of English tourists presumably seeking a decent pint, plus the same two or three drunks blocking the bar. One might have been the owner I reckon. That wasn't good either. This brewery is missing tricks on all levels. It needs to sort out its beer and find a way of getting it in pubs. The area is jumping with thirsty English people, huntin', shootin', fishin', golfing and just touring. Tap into that I'd say.

You could do the enries in the GBG for Galloway in a day and a half if you tried hard. We tried three. The first was the Farmers Arms in Clarencefield. A nice little pub. The one beer? Greene King IPA! What's the point of that, but the place was festooned with Belhaven signs, so a bit of a clue there. The next was much better and a pub I was last in around 35 years ago. Had the Laurie Arms changed much? Blowed if I know, but I kind of doubt it. Pleasant service, good food and decent beer. Trade Winds from Cairngorm was pale and hoppy while we chatted to a long retired Royal Marine Colonel and his wife who were having a quiet lunchtime bottle of red. A good pub which also had Youngs Bitter on.

The next day brought two more GBG pubs. In Kirkcudbright, we visited the excellent and sparkling Masonic Arms though I passed on Roosters ( I haven't been impressed with their beers for a long time) in favour of Hoegaarden. The barmaid was very friendly and we eavesdropped on the local gossip on which small towns thrive. This did not intrude on excellent service.

Our last GBG pub was in beautiful Kippford on the Solway, where yachts bobbed on a twinkling sea. We passed the lifeboat station and its poignantly half mast flag, wondering why and into the Anchor Hotel. Sulwath Criffel which we'd already had elsewhere and is a weedy Black Sheep Bitter taste-alike, had to be passed over. The other offering was Deuchars IPA. I waited at the bar in a pretty empty pub, while the landlady tried to get a signal on the card terminal while not acknowledging my presence. When she finally got round to me, her one word was "Yes?" We supped our diacetyl bombs while she carried on loud local gossip with a man at the bar. The next customer got similar treatment, with the landlady - and it was the landlady I'm sure - continuing her conversation with the regular at the same time. We left the almost empty bar without a "thanks or a goodbye". It's touristy there, but that isn't an excuse. It is touristy everywhere there, yet we were met with courtesy, friendliness and interest everywhere else. This woman let the side down and that part of the world is important to me. She should be ashamed.

I'm not knocking gossip. It is the very life blood of a small community, but there is a right way and a wrong way!

Putting Your Own House in Order

When I left the hall yesterday after Oldham Beer Festival set-up, I saw the back of my bus leaving. Damn. It was a half hour wait for the next one, so what to do? Conveniently there is a pub opposite the bus station. It is signed and run by Marstons. Do you remember that rant by Marston's MD Stephen Oliver that I referred to recently? I know he has apologised for most of it since, but remembering his boast that I could have all the choice of beer I'd like in his pubs, I went in.

Guess what? Of the 35 permanent beers boasted by Mr Oliver, exactly none were available. The pump clips were all turned round. Instead a lone Black Sheep pump coughed and spluttered a reluctant half of ice cold beer to me. The barman, with cigarette behind his ear, told me I might need it topping up as it had been giving trouble all day. He then retreated to the open back door to smoke said fag. It did need topping up, but I didn't bother asking for one, or wondering why he didn't change the beer onto a non faulty handpump. He had plenty to choose from and almost no customers.

There are many reasons why we don't go to pubs, but I'd imagine this cheerless experience would put you off for quite a while. I went back to the cold bus station. It was preferable by far and a much happier place. At least in a bus station hope and expectation fill the air. The pub is for sale or is it lease? No wonder.

Reading this Ollie?

Bad Service Illustrated

This has been mentioned on the odd blog or two recently. Hopefully it never comes to this!

Ice Cold in Glasgow

On my way back south, I called in to a couple of GBG pubs by Glasgow Central Station. One, the Toby Jug is an old favourite. I used to work for another pub in the same group when it was owned by Eadie Cairns, who then owned Auchentoshan Distillery and a few pubs too. Goodness knows who owns it now. Or the distillery for that matter. It has sold cask as long as I can remember, though there may have been gaps I don't know about. Three beers on offer - the ubiquitous Landlord and two from Arran Brewery, Dark and Fireside. The Dark was pleasant and inoffensive, while the Fireside, promising ginger within, delivered on the nose, but less in the taste. It was decent enough and I learned from a customer that Arran Brewery, which went bust and has been relaunched, is either relocating, or has relocated from the island to Glasgow. Another interesting feature of the pub was the price list that grouped draught beers into "CO2" beers, "mixed gas beers" and "lagers". An odd thing I thought.

A pub I haven't been in before and will think twice about before visiting again, is the Drum and Monkey in St Vincent St. It is a nice place, reminiscent of a Gentleman's Club, with three cask beers on. It is Cask Marque listed if you like to know that sort of thing. I dismissed Caley 80/- and Deuchars IPA out of hand, but the third wicket dispensed Morrisey Fox Blond, so I plumped for that. The unsmiling barmaid and I got off on the wrong foot straight away. Standing where I was, I noticed all three swan necks were devoid of sparkler, but a sparkler was sitting on a drip tray. "Aha" I surmised. "You have to ask for it." So I did. The Goth like barmaid demurred. "It will be fine without it" says she. "Maybe" says I "but it is my personal preference to have it sparkled, so please do so." She did so huffily and managed the whole of the rest of the transaction without speaking. I watched the scene. There were three young women running the bar. There was about ten customers, including three at the bar. The staff seemed pre-occupied by rearranging the furniture, talking amongst themselves and consulting sheets of information of some kind. Customers came a poor second. I was served by a different barmaid for my second pint. She seemed to be in charge and immediately got the sparkler and said "You prefer a sparkler. Right?" I agreed and tried to engage her in conversation about the beer. I was batted aside with a Jean Brodie like indifference and the lass retreated to her chums at the bottom end of the bar, where, like the witches of Macbeth, they huddled together. A ginger haired guy at the bar tried to chat to the apparent boss woman too, but got nowhere. He had no doubt observed my attempts, so we were united in our need for that touch of human contact that the lone drinker hopes for in a pub visit. Our eyes locked and we shrugged - beaten!

You read about pubs being in difficulty and it is annoying to find a decent looking boozer run so coldly in such bad economic times. I have to say it is most unusual in Glasgow, where the welcome is usually warm. So who owns this place? Well, oddly it is Nicolsons, who mainly run pubs in London. I didn't know they had any elsewhere. Their web site says "The fundamentals of success for Nicholson’s remain constant; providing timeless hospitality to customers". Not in the Drum and Monkey on my visit they didn't! Anyway what about the Morrisey Fox? God knows where this version was brewed, but it was very good indeed, with a good balance of malt and hop, though perhaps a tad too sweet. I'd drink it again happily, but in a cheerier pub please!

As a footnote, on the way home I called in with Graham to the Angel in Manchester. I have mentioned the wonderful welcome and service here before. There were only two lasses running that pub, but they couldn't have been more warm and welcoming. It seemed to come naturally to them. Maybe that's the secret?

The second photo shows the ice covered lager founts in the Drum and Monkey. Never seen ice that thick on a beer fount before!

Mugged!

Yesterday after calling in at the Co-op to chat to the Hall Manager about the National Winter Ales Festival, me and the Organiser, my mate Graham - did I ever mention I am Deputy Organiser? - went on a wander round the Northern Quarter of Manchester. I won't bore you with details except to mention one incident, which still has me shaking my head with disbelief.

Bar Fringe on Swan St is a kind of Belgian style bar which is very popular and has long been in the Good Beer Guide. It also sells four or five cask ales. We often call in on our travels, though the beer never reaches the heights it could and some of the staff can be attitudinally challenged. Last night was a case in point. I had a very dodgy pint of Holden's Pirate, clearly past its best and getting cardboardy and oxidised while Graham's Allgates didn't seem to be pulling through. A few more tugs on the handpump and he was told "Hang on, the cask needs tilting". (I don't think I've ever encountered that in a pub.) This was duly done and a murky pint presented. Graham brought it back to where I was sitting. It was clearly all "bottoms" and was not fit to drink. He took it back along with mine. A few seconds later he was back. His request for replacements was summarily rejected with the words "you are not getting a free pint here". He even had to endure the charade of the two young barmaids tasting "his" beer and pronouncing it "fine". Given that we had paid for two undrinkable pints, we left, pints virtually untouched, a fiver poorer and a lot wiser.

Needless to say, we won't be going back and indeed may not be welcome back as I've a feeling that sooner or later, we'll get the blame for this piece of nonsense -it's that kind of place.
I am happy for them to prove me wrong of course!

Liking to provide a contrast, the excellent barmaid in the nearby Angel, insisted on us trying all three cask beers before we purchased and was a credit to the place. The beers were in tip top condition too. Well done!