Liverpool Street pubs

A Conran pub, no less, and part of the Great Eastern Hotel, a building that through some miracle has not been pulled down in any of the redevelopments of the area in the 60s, 80s or 90s. From the outside, there's not too much to give away the fact that this is a pub, save for the rather understated St George cross flapping above the doorway. Stepping inside, I find myself in a curious synthesis of traditional and modern that is actually rather pleasing. The bar is all metal and showy Conran minimalism, while the rest of the interior is made up of wooden panelling and fairly basic tables. A good range of beer is on offer, albeit on the pricey side, and the food is nice but again expensive. Getting to the toilet can be a bit of a hallucinogenic voyage through the bowels of the hotel, but otherwise this is a decent venue, with only a yappy self-satisfied City crowd occasionally being a bit of a put-off. Open Saturdays and Sundays, and shows football, albeit quite unobtrusively. Not reviewed yet.

Want to review it? Wood, red carpet, red/brown patterned ceiling, tables, a mysterious small door. Lots of sports screens. Subdued hen party being dragged around by a Jack The Ripper guide - no idea why they thought that would be a good idea. The Juke Box serves up Frank Sinatra followed by Frank Sinatra with a side order of Frank Sinatra. Usual booze. Open Sat/Sun. OK. A big room mostly filled with blokes from Essex wearing suits and swilling lager. They stand around boasting about their bankers' bonuses whilst watching sports on the two large TV screens. The redeeming feature of this pub is that with the railway station over the road, it is easy to make a quick getaway. Curious things happen to pubs near mainline stations. It seems the proximity to a pair of steel rails not only makes the price of a pint shoot up astronomically, but also mutates the genetic code of the drinkers. Mainline station pubs are always full of weird looking people; in this particular occasion a cluster of blokes who looked like a collection of hairy billiard balls with little stick-like limbs, all dressed in denim and with enormous sideburns. They also seem to lack a definite atmosphere (the pubs, that is, not the blokes) and can consequently feel somewhat soulless and depressing. The White Hart manages to avoid that, both by having cultivated some actual locals and by the sheer cheerfulness of its staff. Vertiginous prices aside, there's a pleasing hubbub to this place as all sorts of people from all manner of different places sit around chatting or watching the football; or sometimes just staring at each other's rail-generated genetic oddities. It does food, which I imagine is equally expensive as the beer, and has a rather pleasing cellar bar. Quite traditional in appearance, and open on Sundays (a plus for the area) it is just about lively and diverse enough to garner a recommendation, especially at the weekend when Bishopsgate is about as happening as Glenn Hoddle's pop career. Not reviewed yet.

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