Down in the bowels of Shoreditch a little revolution is bubbling away. Or more appropriately, distilling itself into a concentrate of Dickensian drinking decadence.

Behind the beautiful mahogany bar of Worship Street Whistling Stop magical things are happening. Here innovation, care and service win out over such whimsies as cost or conformity.

Smart haircuts of perfectly uncombed hair greet us. Working uniforms are braces, well-pressed overalls and shirt collars. Knowledge is intrinsic and delivered with aplomb. These are career bartenders, dram-filling baristas of gin, and worse.

Adjust to the dim basement to find homage to Victorian gin palaces, with just a dash of Gatsby grandeur for good measure. The seating plan is made of Chesterfields and pews; the wooden furniture houses collections of oil lamps; a piano holds various old glass bottles and steel vases. Leather, strong wood, exposed brick and gold detailing in abundance. There’s curiosities too, including a scrapheap bath tub which makes an overly cosy gin tasting snug. The trendy styling but well worn character echoes the contradictions of the age in the spotlight.

We’ve come here to drink and our creations do not arrive fast, but they do arrive with drama – simple to look at but luxurious to taste my Panacea could cure even the hardiest of sceptics of the virtues of the cocktails. Whiskey, honey and lavender caress lustily – the sage dust adds a dry love bite. It is sublime in the Victorian sense of the word, despite its physical diminutiveness.

The Cappuccino Baby arrives swiftly after. Baby is a reference to its use of formula milk, without which it wouldn’t be the creamy, coffee bean dream that it is. In a tall glass it’s gulped down rather less sophisticatedly than it arrived, and my friend orders another within minutes. Which at £9 a pop is not a sign of fiscal disregard, but of his childlike delight to say hello to this comforting friend again.

The craft involved in these drinks is to be revered, and more so because in their creation the spirit of 19th century alchemy lives on. In the poky distillation room to the rear of the bar alcohol meets mad scientist. Trial and error moulds and remoulds constituents from one concoction into another – super heat treated beer ‘Vermouth’ joins cognac and roasted yeast bitters to become a Broiler-Maker. High pressure hydrosol takes vodka and Gancia Bianco, shakes it up and bursts into an Exploded Vodka Martini. Salts, herbs, bitters, yeasts, liquors and syrups all leave the room combined with other parts to become a whole. The finished article then may meet frozen sugar or malic acid, or suffer irradiation or the dreaded ‘méthode champenoise’ (a second fermentation in the bottle, providing fizz and flavour). And all this in the name of an experience in sensory displacement and indulgent imbibing.

Rakes would have loved the booze and the theatre, but Worship Street Whistle Stop is perhaps a little sophisticated for the darker desires of William Hickey or Dorian Gray. In this dark setting nothing more intoxicating than magnificent drinks are consumed, and no destruction of character other than over indulgence takes place. Wallets may tremble in terror, but the experience is worth it.

Dram Snug at Worship Street Whistling Shop, with thanks to www.tehbus.com for the snap after my camera broke in London

Glossary of libation

Distillation equipment

Cocktail cure all?

WS2 map

Drinking den information:
Venue: Worship Street Whistling Shop
Website: http://whistlingshop.com/
Town/city: Shoreditch, London

The Fuller’s Brewery probably stands a litle too far West of the City of London to claim it can hear the bells of St Clements (regardless if you favour the claims of the churches in Westminster or Candlewick).

As London beer goes though, this is the only one I’d associate with a certain nursery rhyme , for no reason other than Bengal Lancer is orange and lemons through and through.

A citrus nose, voluptuous marmalade rind body and a cheap grapefruit juice finish exert plenty of flavour over a temperate backbone of peppery-toffee.

This hops and malt in all their IPA glory without been obtrusive or over zealous.

In a bottle, Bengal Lancer has fast become a favourite from the supermarket (Sainsbury’s and Waitrose both stock it). On cask – if you’re lucky enough to find it during it’s all too short stint in London pubs – it’s equally tempting and subsequently rewarding.

Whether or not it would have found favour in colonial India, who knows. But it sure packs enough of a punch to stand out whilst being tantalising undecided about it’s ability to quench or leave you desperate for more.

Heritage artwork or crass marketing?

Nothing beats breakfast in Borough market. A steaming hot wild boar sausage in bread roll, juggled between cold hands, a generous splash of spicy home-made ketchup and sprig or three of chard and spinach leaves. And to the stall next door for a few succulent pieces of just grilled halloumi to finish it off. Bellissimo!

It’s too cold to sit on the wall outside Southwark Cathedral so the pigeons scrounge our scraps. In fact it’s barely warm enough to eat as we prepared for a second day wandering around London in minus degrees centigrade weather.

A long day starts by working our way along the rail tracks to Tower Bridge following the perfectly symmetrical arches. Under numbers 98 – 100 sits Kernel Brewery. There’s a striking resemblance to Marble of Manchester: the home under the railways, the emphasis on hops, the appreciation of good food and the influence from distant shores.

In nearby archways sit bakeries, green grocers and purveyors of continental delicacies. So no surprise that cheese and ham are been carved on the counter next to the Imperial Stout, S.C.A.N.S. IPA and Kernel White Ale. And the beer that broke the yeasts back, cooking porter (apparently that’s all it’s good for).

Evan, mastermind behind Kernel’s flavour-packed beers, shows us the kit which take up a fraction of the space under the curved roof. Hops litter the mushroom cloud of yeast in the first fermentation tank whilst something stout-like slowly bubbles, getting stronger by the hour on it’s way to an ABV% from the dark side of the moon.

Game hanging at Borough Market

Mr Pork watches guard at Borough Market

Kernel Brewery, Tower Bridge, London

A happy accident: cooking porter

(click on images to enlarge)

The tasters of Evan’s 12% imperial stout hits pretty hard but the cold air soon knocks the lucidity back into us. Tower Bridge is just around the corner, a magnificent symbol of London’s prowess, the most famous bascule in the world. On the approach to the majestic structure we nip into the Draft House purely for warmth and cheekily walked out after checking the beer list (which was fine, but nothing took our fancy). Mere doors away is the Bridge House, Adnams Dining Pub of the Year. It shows; above the bar Veuve Clicquot magnums are arranged neater than the Selfridges Christmas window display and the food looks nothing less than divine. A hearty winter meal is tempting but curry at Greenwich market is on the to-do list so we settle for sharing a bottle of Adnam’s IPA. It’s just the ticket as we adjust to the sudden warmth and the über geek-chic staff (who look like they’ve just walked off the main stage of an über trendy music festival).

We can’t stay for long, Mark’s itinerary is packed tighter than sedimentary rock (and would take as long to be fulfilled) so it’s back towards the train via the fascinating Southwark Tavern. Football fans, shoppers and bar-proppers are thrust together like sardines in the upstairs bar so we try our luck down the steep winding stairs. Far from escaping the hustle and bustle it’s packed and rowdy. The low bricked ceilings supposedly once housed a debtors prison, perhaps the very jail where William Smith and Marc Isambard Brunel were once coalesced*, but its probably just as likely that in the tiny cubby holes stewed less salubrious activities. At 12pm it’s no bordello but it’s not the time or place to a quiet beer and a chat. One to try another time because the building and beer list are alluring to say the least.

Cold and thirsty the packed overground offers brief respite. Luton fans are hunting for tickets on the way to Charlton in the cup and one, particularly well lubed up with cheap lout (not that that’s of any consequence) is demanding everyone’s attention with his bionically integrated foghorn because his mate Biscuit has dropped some sort of bollock…

Hop names adorn the Draft House walls

Adnams IPA at Bridge House, London

Moor Freddy Walker at Cask Pub & Kitchen

Mikkeller night at Cask Pub & Kitchen

(click on images to enlarge)

Greenwich saves us. Inspired by Michael Jackson’s beer collection which adorns the walls of the Old Brewery we do what beer geeks do best. Meantime London Porter, Helles and a French bock are quaffed in the strange surroundings of a museum-cum-tourist-information-cum-café-cum-restaurant in the shadow of Meantime’s brewing coppers and in earshot of an engrossing dissection of astrology by a very intellectual looking couple drinking wine.

Nearby Greenwich market is surrounded by Grade 2 listed buildings, a covered collection of stalls crammed in the open spaces that were once dark streets filled with slaughter houses and traders peddling their wares. These days hand carved nik-naks and world food stalls cater for the hoards of punters. Polish dumplings and thai green curry stove our fires and home-made champagne cider warms us up again.

The next stop takes us overground and underground, through Brixton towards the huge tardis that is the Florence brewpub. Disembarking from the train Herne Hill looks like a Lego town due to it’s cobbled main thoroughfare that cuts between the main roads sheltering local hardware shops, salons and greengrocers. It’s quite unlike anywhere else in London so far. The Florence overlooks a big park and has a family atmosphere (there are copies of the Guardian and children everywhere) and is quite unlike any pub I’ve been to in London so far. For a start the smell of wort hangs from the rafters but unfortunately their own beer isn’t on although the beer mats make interesting reading whilst we enjoy a spicy seasonal Adnam’s and peruse the menu – Weasel, Beaver and Bonobo are all brewed on site in the tiny glass brew room where two burly figures are repairing what looks like a heat exchanger.

It’s a whistle-stop tour and the day is running out so we rush for the train – luckily it’s late – which sends us rattling over a completely different London; lights across the city twinkle on as far as the eye can see and there’s a strange quiet, the calm before the storm of Saturday night.

At Cask Pub & Kitchen that twilight drinkers are a mix of people just starting their evening in the city and those, like us, bringing a long day to a close. We have an hour and a half before the X Factor express takes us back to Kent. That’s just enough time to try most of the Mikkeller beers on draught as well as a sneaky Moor Old Freddy Walker, an incredible beer that’s perfect for the time of year. The Mikkellers fall faster than I can scribble then names down.

Cask has a cosmopolitan atmosphere to it, a pub that you can relax in and chat. We get talking to two lads who tell us a titillating tale about a beery stag do in Bruges and we convince them to try some of the outrageously strong beer we’re sampling. Long before we leave the table is covered in empty glasses, though very beer served in a different glass from an unrelated brewery, the only blotch our the last stop of a day of unrelenting exploration.

*The father of geology and the father of Isambard Kingdom Brunel respectively were both short-term residents at King’s Bench prison in Southwark, but neither that nor Marshalsea, the two major debtors prisons of Southwark, were in quite the right place to be connected to the Southwark Tavern in any form other than prison guards watering there.

The Shard edges it's way up London's skyline

Beneath the glinting facade of the half built Shard – a sharp glass stalactite stretching toward the smog-less skies – sits ones of London’s ugliest train stations. Brown corrugated shelters just about cover the platforms at London Bridge and the scruffy mustard floors are no welcome to weary travellers.

Beyond this minor aesthetic setback, arriving into London is always something to cherish. It’s a moment that makes me want to scold myself, such is the childlike exuberance that floods my brain as I step off the train and fumble for a tube map or travel card. No other city gives me this uncontrollable rush of blood to the head.

London is a city built on layers of history and generations of equal hardship and innovation. Every street offers a story, every borough a different surprise. London’s bounty can only really be revealed by walking (with a little help from the Tube).

On a cold November Friday this in exactly what we’re doing, four and a half excitable beer lovers braving the rasping wind and diving temperatures. Back in Leeds the first snowflakes are appearing and Britain’s biggest early winter freeze for 17 years is, unbeknown to many of us, about to bring the road and rail network to it’s knees.

Starting off from the striking  Old Fountain, a pub cum pie shop with a lively atmosphere but lacklustre beer, we walked from Old Street to Farringdon. Starting with the bright exterior of the Old Fountain we passed a smorgasbord of architectural styles: Edwardian terraces, Victorian churches and Tudor barricades. The Knights Hospitallers once walked these streets, maybe even visited these pubs.

At the Gunmakers Arms, hidden inconspicuously down a strangely empty side street, landlord Jeff greets us and serves pints of Mad Goose, Town Crier and Harvest Moon. From the beautiful façade to the all wooden interior The Gunmakers oozes retro chic, an image tarnished only by the market-town-circa-1750 feel to the beer list. Is this the middle of modern London or middle earth? In a surreal twist of fate conversation turns to social security, the cultural identity of Africa and the Millennium Bug. I shit you not.

Imbibed and refreshed we march down Leather Lane, London’s jewellery quarter and it doesn’t disappoint. The only two non-jewellery establishments are a couple of bookmakers. Presumably for winning back the money you’ve just reluctantly spent on your loved one.

Sam Smith's pubs are going strong in the City of London

Turning the corner the glass behemoth of the Sainsbury’s Customer Support Centre dominates Holburn Circus where once the statue of England’s only official Prince Consort stole the show. Only a stones throw away is Cittie of York, a typically London-style Sam Smith’s pub. Wooden clad across every available surface, the cosy upright booths are a far cry from The Fountain in Morley, and the Cittie of York deserves its place in CAMRA’s inventory of historic pub interiors. Cheeky jokes about the price of beer in London are greeted with a crafty smile and a pint and a half only just breaks a £2 coin. Weirdly Sam Smith’s seem to have more of a heritage in the capital than Yorkshire sometimes and for a Thursday afternoon trade is as lively as the Angel of Briggate in Leeds (a pub where two pints of bitter leaves you change from £2.50).

Lubricated, the vaguely south-westerly march to Embankment continues, via a stop at The Harp in Covent Garden. The area is cosmopolitan and cultured; shoppers, tourists and office skivers scurrying around, in and out of shops, eateries and festively-lit alleyways. The Harp is the perfect drinking hole: narrow and busily decorated; and so it’s no surprise that it’s on the short-list for CAMRA pub of the year. Space for four is found upstairs in the B&B style living room and lively Friday afternoon banter ensues. Thornstar takes us over the threshold of tipsy and I make the mistake of a pint not a half. But outside it’s freezing and getting dark so a beer jacket is required.

The winter night draws in fast and we beat the commuter rush by hiding in a McDonald’s queue, cardboard meat filling a hole  just long enough for us to get to The White Horse at Parson’s Green, a standing tube ride through throngs of Londoners desperate to get home to warm meals and a weekend away from the office. Our journey west takes us to a haven of dark, strong beers: scores of half pints litter a long evening drinking whiskey-aged, barrel-aged, imperial-esque stouts, porters, barley wine and Christmas beers.

After much beer exploration and mingling with beer friends already well watered with 8%+ beer,  the night suddenly swallows us up, spitting  half of us out on trains homeward bound and the other half of us at a late night burrito bar. Memories fade in and out; a French couple sharing enchiladas; people on their way out, people on their way home; theatres spilling happy revellers into inapprorpriatelysmall streets; galloping through vaguely familiar roads towards the train with the thrill of not knowing exactly where you are. My travelcard is weathered and worn as we enter countless metal barriers and Whipping Picaddilly is racing through my head ( I’m nearly drunk enough to sing along out loud).

We finish where we started, under the now dark presence of the clandestine Shard, and those ugly, plastic-looking platform shelters at London Bridge. Exuberance has kept me going all day and the god-awful design is merely a long forgotten hiccup in London’s ability to send me into a state of tongue-hanging wonder. The mix of buildings; the volume of things to see; the vast horizon stretching in every direction; the countless beers ready and waiting to be sunk tomorrow. If Brian Cox told me it was the centre of the universe I’d believe him.

The 07.39 Tonbridge to Charing Cross is delayed, which means the whole days itinerary is in jeopardy. Frost lines the tracks and lingers on rooftops, the air cuts through wool, leather cotton, polyester and skin. It’s the coldest morning of the year and the prospect of spending Sunday chasing trains and waiting on unfamiliar platforms is about as appealing as sticking my head in an industrial freezer.

Actually that might be respite from the cold today.

Just as I piece together the Kentish drawl of the public address system the train eases silently into place. Stops at Hildenborough, Sevenoaks and Orpington are cancelled so that the lost time can be made up and (hopefully) I can make my connection to Leeds. Slowly the The steeples of the oast houses disappear into the undulating hills as the white frosted countryside flies past. Larkin would have written volumes on this journey…

We pull under the shadow of the Shard just in time Read the rest of this entry »

Smoky as hell to smell and like a burnt caramel bar to taste, M&S’s London Porter is a sweet beer to devour with masses of chocolate or marshmallows over a camp fire.

If you don’t fancy the great outdoors then no worries, the lingering smoky presence hangs around for a long time in your mouth and may invoke daydreams of sitting under the stars and gazing at the heavens.

It’s packed with malt variety: you can settle for adoring it’s remarkably sweet Cadbury’s flavours, or close your eyes and take in the notes of liquorice, coffee and molasses that may or may not be hiding under the covers of darkness.

For best results wait for a cold, wet October night when the light recedes before you’ve even left work. Use as a slow burning nightcap, and crack open in place of a steaming mug of fluffy hot chocolate. Nestle deep into the sofa, dip into your gastronomic vice of choice and have a bit of mid-week you-time.

London Porter brewed by Meantime for M&S

When I went down to the British Guild of Beer Writers dinner a couple of weeks ago I had a fantastic night. But the day after topped it all off with a pub crawl around London starting with Mark Dredge, Tim Hampson and Zak Avery in the Market Porter, and continuing across London town with Knut Albert, Ally Shaw and John the Beer Nut (via The Rake, Greenwich Union, The Wenlock Arms, The Gunmakers Arms and beyond).

I knew I’d taken a group photo at some point, I clearly remembered balancing my camera on a precipitous ledge in the Wenlock Arms, but for the life of me couldn’t find the resulting image.

Until now! And it made me smile and remember how great it is to meet up with like minded beer folk and talk beer and drink beer.

Beer bloggers unite over a pint or three in the Wenlock Arms

To good times, sláinte!

From left to right: Ally Shaw (FeralStrumpet), The Beer Nut (John Duffy), Knut Albert, Mark Dredge and me, FletchtheMonkey (Mark Fletcher, Real Ale Reviews).

These were the second and third Nicholsons Pubs we visited on our day out. Both followed the same theme of the Nicholsons brand, a traditional style pub with a good range of real ales on offer. The format is the same up and down the country as we can see in Leeds’ own Victoria and Commercial and Scarborough Hotels.

I’ll cut straight to the chase…..the beers on offer were…

The White Lion, Covent Garden –

Black Sheep Brewery – Golden Sheep – darker in appearance than I expected from the ‘golden’ cousin of the Black Sheep. The beer was remarkably smooth, not in a London Pride ‘I could drink this all day’ manner, but a fuller more satisfying way.

Shepherd Neame – Late red – a promising fruity nose is borne out in the initial flavour. This fruitiness falls away to a nutty aftertaste that lingers in the mouth.

Morrisey Fox – Brunette – slightly acidic and sharp in the first instance, there is some fruity flirtation but ultimately it fails to deliver in full.

Timothy Taylor Landlord

Fullers London Pride

The Three Greyhounds, Soho(ish) –

Daleside – Autumn Leaves – the flavour delivers what the name promises with a smoky, dark fruit flavour lingering through to a distinct note of Raspberry.

Abbot Ale – a strong punchy English wake-up call to the taste buds. Darker and stronger than anything else I’d tasted on the day

My last review of this bar shows that I wasn’t massively taken by my last visit. I had been on a sunny bank holiday weekend and had been disappointed by the lack of summer or pale ales available on draught.

People who know assured me that I should go back and take another look, focussing on the bottled selection rather than what they have available on draught. Firstly I should say that the bar is far larger than I realised on my first visit (we had sat outside last time) which is lucky as I’m told that it can get very busy on evenings through the week.

The range of bottled beers could easily keep a beer hound happy all evening. Naturally my instinct is to compare it to the places that I know and visit often and the ranges of beers available offers easy comparison with North Bar in Leeds. The range of bottles available is probably broadly similar to North although I would again mention that the range is pretty limited in Porterhouse if you actually want a pint. The other main difference between the  two is the decor and I have to say that, while I do find the rustic minimalism of North appealing, the strange copper (nautical themed) interior of the Porterhouse was ultimately far more comfortable.

On the day I opted for an Anchor Pale Ale and recommended a bottle of Orval for Jack but there was plenty of range on the beer menu so I’m sure most people wi’ll find something they like here.

The first impression of this pub is what I would expect from a pub on a main street in London. Initially I thought it was a little bit touristy, with oak panelling broken by up by faux medieval tapestry. That said there were more people knocking about in actual suits than in shell suits with cameras so I was willing to give it a try.

I took me about five seconds and a quick glance across the beer selection to decide that I liked the place, I didn’t realise it at the time but this was to be the first of three visits to Nicholson’s Pubs on the day and the range and quality of the ales available was top drawer. We sampled…

Timothy Taylor Landord - Reviewed by so many people before, I always think that it tastes a little fruitier on draught than out of a bottle.

Greene King IPA - This should be entry three in the Day in London series and I had had an American Pale Ale immediately before drinking this. After a bottle of the hop filled American cousin I found the Greene King a bit shollow in taste, probably more appropriate to a session but ultimately not a world rocking IPA.

Cairngorm Autumn Nuts - I really liked this Ruby Ale, it wasn’t massively hopped and I think  Fletch would probably have found it underwhelming, but there was still goodcflavour and it was spot on for me.  Pleasingly it does carry an autumnal feel and offers some warmth from the winter chill.

The bar was also offering London Pride and Hobgoblin and the range of autumnal guests in the pipeline spanned to 12 which the barstaff told me would be constantly rotating through the season.  Hats off.