Limehouse pubs

This is not a pub in the conventional sense, but is nevertheless a perfectly pleasant watering hole and adds to the fine collection of boozers on this famous street. The most endearing feature is the panoramic view of the Thames if you are lucky enough to be sitting in one of the window seats at the back. On our last visit here the staff waved us a friendly goodbye at midnight and they showed no signs of closing. One to remember. Not reviewed yet.

Want to review it? Beautiful. Tables nestle in corners, 1940s music waltzes quietly in the background, a balcony overlooks the river Thames. A sign asks people to switch off their mobile phones. The staircase to the wondrous upper floor sits in the middle of the lounge. Excellent food, great beer and a vibrant atmosphere. The only downside is the preponderance of very rich people, b-list 'celebrities' and media students It's lying as this is no longer a true pub. We liked it as it was; it served decent beer and the menu offered appetising and reasonably priced food options. There are problems with the name too. Why advertise the fact that the pub has a dining room? Big deal, it has a kitchen too, but they haven't called it 'Narrow Street Pub and Kitchen'. It just sounds stupid. Anyway, the current incarnation is geared specifically towards NERDs or 'New Rich Docklanders.' The interior now resembles a conservatory in a spaceship: light and airy with metallic shades. We prefer the terrace which offers fine views of the Thames. The bar serves a limited, if slightly exotic range of continental lagers, but the main emphasis here is on quality food and wine. Despite my rather pathetic lamentations at this not being a proper pub, I found myself enjoying the exquisite food and wine. I almost managed to forget about the snobbish clientele and the forty-something male in Timmy Mallett style lime green specs, but not quite. Not to be confused with several Indian food outlets of the same name, this pub has a grim, forbidding exterior that is entirely in keeping with its location: the least salubrious stretch of what is anyway a rather unwholesome highway. The interior, however, is quite superb. The gloomy, cavernous lounge has murals set into the walls and faces carved into the ceiling beading, and all the decoration is of dark, rich colours, lending the whole place a powerful air of gothic decay. A pity, then, that on a Saturday night the only punters were a dusting of grey disintegrating men sat around the bar, staring with longing at a collection of sandwiches under cellophane wrapping on a table by the door. I took my pint and sat at a distant table, watching as a cat walked across the bar top and rubbed its arse on (variously) the beer taps, people's pint glasses and the bar mats. A dog ran in a series of eccentric ellipses under the tables, in a manner bored caged animals so often do. Flies gathered over my pint, and at any minute I expected Death to walk through the door and enquire which of us had eaten the salmon mousse. I swiftly drank up and left. Later that night (well, in fact at 2am the next morning) as I was heading back along Commercial Road in the celestial carriage that is the N115, I noticed the lights in the pub were still on, and in fact a large group of twentysomethings were gyrating next to the bar, rather in the manner of dysfunctional robots. They were even eating the sandwiches. So there's hope for the place yet. Let's just hope the cat's arse had stayed the right side of the cellophane. One of a few traditional pubs set amid the Georgian streets to the north of Commercial Road. A five minute walk to the south and you're in the new Limehouse with its gleaming new apartments and tourist trodden streets. Up here though, things seemingly remain as they have done for decades. This is definitely a local working man's pub. The first thing that strikes you on entering the place is the size. It's like walking into the front room of someone's house. Two steps from the front door and you're already at the bar. To my right an expressionless old man fixes me with his glazed eyes for a second before suddenly becoming fascinated by the wood-panelled walls. The barmaid, probably Peggy Mitchell's long lost sister, serves me immediately. After picking up my pint, I wander past a small group of men arguing at the opposite end of the bar and sit down on the sofa opposite the TV. It's a Saturday afternoon so the men were arguing about the football. The younger of the group, a Millwall fan, was enjoying the high point of their football season by yelling at the TV, "ge'on yer hub-cap knickers, piss all over those cockney wankas". The older bearded man, clearly a West Ham fan didn't rise to it and the conversation moved on. I decided to keep my allegiances to myself. After a while the snooker replaces the football scores and I lose interest in the TV completely. I then find myself overhearing snippets of conversation again. The men are now planning their annual booze cruise and the conversation seems to centre around who got the most drunk on the ferry and the abuse of foreigners. Activities that should probably be introduced by the IOC in time for the 2012 Olympics to guarantee us at least some medals. Surprise surprise West Ham maintain their winless streak at Anfield and I leave the lively banter in this traditional Cockney boozer behind.

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