Marylebone pubs

Not reviewed yet.

Want to review it? This has the best pub sign west of Tottenham Court Road, sort of like a pastoral Gilbert and George without the poo obsession. The exterior of the pub is kind of like a Church without the pointy bits; stone, with narrow stained glass windows and a rather bulky door. The interior is weirdly, woodenly modernist. A fairly friendly pub which occasionally fills up with hooray types on a Friday and Saturday night This is a fantastic friendly pub which some friends and I came upon during a tour of the Marylebone pubs. A great atmosphere with very friendly bar staff, it's nice to see a pub which still has that local pub feeling. There's a good cocktail range, which are also on a happy hour price. I recommend this to everyone, it caters for all ages and has a fab new food menu. Very small, traditional, blue seats, wooden decor, old photos that actually manage to be of the locality. Kind of nice, but I was driven to distraction by the hideous 1980s music channel on the TV, vomiting out a remix of U2's 'Desire' that seemed to go on for a hundred years. Football. Cheery staff. Decent bitter. Not reviewed yet.

Want to review it? Boring. Simon Bolivar lodged in a house opposite, and that, really, is the most distinguishing feature of a packed, narrow, noisy and cheerful pub that has plenty of room out front and to the side. Not open weekends. Rather difficult to find, but well worth the effort. Mews pubs are not as common as they really should be, so to then find one that is actually any good is a rare treat. This is a warm, inviting pub that makes the drinker feel privileged to be within its walls. An interesting, labyrinthine layout has caused the occasional problem remembering where the toilets are, but usually lead to there being plenty of options of where to sit (apart from on the toilet, of course). A small TV occasionally and unobtrusively shows the football on Sky Sports. The only let-down is the beer: Samuel Smith's It’s the same man. The same man! Five months ago, in a Chinese restaurant in Edinburgh, I watched a father and his two sons demolish seemingly endless plates of food, displaying the sort of boundless enthusiasm exhibited by US Republicans when despoiling virgin wilderness in order to drill for oil. And here he was again, with his two children, 400 miles south of our previous meeting, sitting just across from me in the pub. It crossed my mind that maybe, like the Very Hungry Caterpillar, he’d eaten his way south, leaving nothing but a giant hole in the countryside behind him. The staff – all Thai – were being incredibly polite to him, bringing him plate after plate as he ordered more and more and their food stocks rapidly diminished. I tried my best to ignore the incessant munching and concentrate on the rest of the pub. It’s nice, laid back, quite a haven from the frantic shouting of the Marylebone pubs a little to the east. There were a cluster of Greek men busy drinking, some Austrian tourists and a few posh workies, making the place busy enough to have a little ambience, but not so busy that it began to feel crowded. The décor has rather been ruined by a bland 90s refit, leaving nasty terracotta and cream walls, too-bright halogen spotlights and a lack of interesting features as a rather unfortunate legacy, but a few real ales plus excellent Thai food – if any of it remains – help reinforce the impression that this is a pub well worth visiting. If all that remains is a giant hole by the side of the road, you’ll know what’s happened. Might well get crowded on football – or more likely, rugby – occasions. Red on the outside, with peculiar leaded windows like you dont much see on pubs. Displays in said windows old Dinky Cars, medicine bottles, beer bottles, that sort of thing. However, this is not ONeills-style fake eccentricity; this pub is genuinely bizarre. Inside, the curio glass-case collectors items continue. Ill-lit, free of smoke and music, the telly mostly switched off, the bar luxuriates in the patter of quiet conversation and serious drinking. The seat by the window moulded itself into an exact replica of my posterior, making it difficult for me to extract myself. Adnams, Bombadier, serious booze business. Food, sometimes. Locals there are few genuine locals left in this neck of the woods, but those that remain come here. They have an extraordinary accent, quite distinctive, more lilting than East-End cockney. This place is a wonder, a fragment of a fantasy past somehow poking into the present. This has always beamed out rather attractively from the corner of New Cavendish Street, but the distracting presence of the King's Head just to the north has meant I've never before bothered to visit. Very properly decorated in rich dark wood with shiny trimmings, the area against the windows is sectioned off most appealingly into a series of semi-booths (for want of a better description). Friendly staff and a wide range of punters give for an excellent atmosphere, with a hubbub of quiet conversation meandering this way and that, and someone busy trying to knock his pint over with his elbow every time he made a point. It's a Samuel Smith's pub, so don't go asking for Stella, but I would encourage anyone to explore the wide range of bottled lagers, ales and porters on offer. Does food and all that kind of stuff (coffee etc). Really, it's quite a splendid place, with its sole problem being the extremely close proximity of the incomparable King's Head. If that one's packed, this is a great second option. As I enter I am almost smacked across the head by a rugby ball that the two Australian barmen had been throwing at each other. Oh. I look around the bar and realize that my arrival has just increased the pub’s population by 50%. Not good. Undeterred I proceed to buy a drink and one of the barman pops behind the bar to serve me. I order a pint of the only bitter that they have on and find a seat. After a while I realize that I am in pub hell. A big screen pumps out dance hits at full volume and the bored barmen resume their rugby ball throwing. I look away and cast an eye over my surroundings instead. The shabby décor still appears to be suffering the effects of an ill-considered refit in the 1970s. The whole effect is capped off by a hideous colony of rugby figurines above the bar. A couple walk into the pub and immediately leave with ashen faces. After a while a girl walks in and the bored barmen start chatting her up. It turns out she works behind the bar too. Great and there I was worried that I might not be able to get served. Just as the irritating whining accents were starting to get too much a bloke walks in, this time it’s a customer. Finally. Pint in hand he escapes to the corner containing the quiz machine. Leaving my empty pint I make for the other corner and the exit. A very traditional-looking pub parked just behind Baker Street. It's Sunday and the only people in are watching the football and smoking like chimneys. The whole place is rather down at heel, with shabby decorations and the feel of having gone to seed for too many years. There is a very limited choice of beer, and cheap but not entirely appetising food on offer. A slightly more surreal vista opens itself up as I go to the loo, when just beyond the bar I spot a small, bright orange annexe with a stripped wooden floor, and which contains a few tables and its own TV, as well as a scattering of posh trendy people. It's like something from 'The Clerkenwell Lounge' has been grafted on to the side of an ordinary pub, which is about as pointless as sticking a baboon's arse on a shire horse. But, for all its faults, this place is okay. Pretty decent renovated pub serving a collection of fairly well-heeled Marylebone locals, gently annoying office types and sprinkling of randoms. Fair selection of beer and bottled cider served in a friendly fashion by competent bar staff. Beware the bar snacks - the price of a bowl of japanese crackers can shock into sobriety, but the proper food is of a good quality and at reasonable cost. The pub has a new name, new management and has been refurbished since this review. Disappointing. Other than the name, there are no references to the Scottish freedom fighter at all, not even a poster of a lank-haired Mel Gibson. On our visit the staff outnumbered the customers and were reduced to playing with the juke box and fruit machines to alleviate their boredom. The resulting bleeps, sirens and throbbing techno competed with the TV at high volume destroying any atmosphere. Nothing happens for ages and customers are few and far between (I counted only one other person while I was there). The only allusion to Scotland at the bar was the Deuchars IPA, which was a fine pint it has to be said. Beyond that other beers consisted of the usual big name brands (or is that blands). Menus on the tables advertise Thai food, that can be eaten there or taken away. No sign of stir fried haggis though I noticed. The whole establishment is about as Scottish as a World Cup winning football team and like their football team is in desperate need of a good manager. Sitting near the end of an angled terrace, light beaming out of its windows on a cold and cheerless night, this appears from the outside to be a highly traditional pub. Unfortunately, this is not quite true; it is somehow just too clean and ordered, I suppose, despite the traditional dark wood furnishings and typical pub decor. Which doesn't mean that it lacks considerable plus points. There is an upstairs non-smoking lounge, a good selection of beers and wines, and an unobtrusive plasma screen showing the football. The large open bar, relaxed ambience and warm radiators are all highly pleasing, and this is only slightly marred by the barman's taste in nu-metal. Then my eyes are drawn to the "Svenska Salongen", a conservatory at the back of the building decked out in traditional Swedish style, complete with a signed picture of Sven throbbing sexily on the wall. Tuned in to something a little different in the atmosphere, I suddenly realise that all the conversations I had been half-overhearing are in fact happening in Swedish, which is why I couldn't make any sense of them. And I had thought it was just my ears. Weird. Upon going to the toilet, I see a list of the next month's big screen highlights, which include the heats for the Swedish Eurovison Song Contest entry, the Final, and lots of Swedish Ice Hockey. Everything makes sense. No wonder this place is so clean, and no wonder that its vibe is so civilised. A Swedish pub - that's a first for me. What can I say - it's all very nice. Large Victorian pub situated opposite the staff entrance to Selfridges. On our visit it was populated by couples, tourists and the odd bloke escaping the horrors of a Saturday shopping trip with the missus. I should point out that if you are hoping to watch the football here instead of shopping with the missus you will be disappointed. There was no TV screen on view on our visit, just the blarings of the worst excesses of 90s pop music emanating from the speakers above the bar. There was only one ale on offer, London Pride; and there was a stomach churning selection of alcopops glowing like radioactive waste in the chiller cabinets. Vodka mudslide anyone? No thanks. The best thing about this establishment is the wood panelling and the exquisite marquetry running along the top of the bar, but you would have to be really sad to make a special trip here to see those. A vertiginous staircase leads to an upstairs bar and the toilets. Out of nowhere, this crumbling Victorian boozer gained a layer of bright red paint, a silly name and a devoted following of gynaecologists. The original interior has been erased, to be replaced with some comfy chairs, a few tables and a kind of groovy mid-1990s bar vibe. The serving area has been rather badly redesigned and now lurks apologetically in one corner, like a mature arts student at an agric freshers' ball. Well-heeled sorts of all sexes, ages and races stand around politely discussing women's bits, and it turns out the barstaff are gynaecologists too. Suddenly, as I push through red doors into a red corridor that houses the toilets, the glistening red paint makes sense. Red interiors; red doors; No wonder it's full of gynaecologists. Hidden quietly away from the kafuffle of Marylebone, and opposite the recently nationalised Heart Hospital (a good reminder of What Drink Does - just say no, people), this absolute gem sits on a corner beaming out good cheer. Inside it is small, intimate and friendly, unspoilt by the ravages of the modern age. I come in here to pretend it's all not happening outside. I think it sometimes does food in the excellent upstairs area, but best just to come in for a quiet drink, and while away the hours Acceptable, traditionally-styled boozer that looks much bigger from the outside than it actually proves to be. Several real ales and an enthusiastic workie crowd. Not open weekends. Betwixt the over commercialised insanity of Oxford Street and Middle Eastern Edgware Road, this establishment along with its surrounding streets is an oasis of calm. The neighbourhood gives off a heady scent of affluence. Expensive apartment blocks and even more expensive hotels make this the area of choice for the rich international set. The Masons Arms is a charming piece of old England that has thankfully made no attempt to pander to the needs of the more recent arrivals to the area. It just carries on doing what it has done for decades: serve great beer and pub grub. The cellars beneath the pub even used to house the condemned awaiting execution at nearby Tyburn. The island bar serves the glorious range of beers from Dorsets Badger brewery together with the excellent Munich Hofbrau lager in normal and export strength. Seating is available upstairs or out on the pavement, however on our visit we preferred to watch the American barman playing chess with one of the regulars. Constant interruption by people wanting to buy beer was his downfall and ultimately he lost. Being embedded in the corner of a towerblock and boasting a ghastly grey exterior are two attributes not favourably considered in the pub world. Despite boasting both, this pub is a bit of a cracker. After negotiating the hideous outside and the complicated double door entry system, I am presented with a dark, laid-back interior. Low tables and leather sofas are scattered liberally throughout, with plenty of open floor space and bar-seating for those busy Friday nights. Projecting a rather upmarket, sophisticated air, the bar serves fancy foreign lagers and an impressive array of delicious, if pricey, food. No TV, but chilled grooves (at least on early evenings and Saturdays my favourite visiting times) echo soulfully from a quiet soundsystem. There's a downstairs club thing too, populated by beautiful people who seem to use it as a pre-club club (if you see what I mean), but this isn't always open. This sort of place isn't usually my scene, but it is such a consummate example of the groovy chillout pub genre that I find myself extremely fond of it. Slightly unhinged mixture of people in suits, tourists, TV football fans and the slightly groovy, all crammed into a pub spread over four floors that are linked by an iron spiral staircase. Random floors seem to get noisy at random times, while other parts of the pub languish in the company of more reserved punters. Decent food, relatively cheap beer and some real ales. Entertaining. I've, er, been here before, haven't I? Traditional pub turned funky, big bar area, posh food, lots (and lots) of foreign beers on tap. Fairy lights. Fancy upstairs (in this instance called 'The Opium Room'). Odd serif fonts. Kind of nice. And yet, it's all strangely the same: the White Hart in Crystal Palace, the Marquis of Cornwallis in Bloomsbury, The Shepherd on City Road. Either they all got the same designer in, used the same design template software, or they are part of a secret chain, as sinister as the rosicrucians but slightly more fun. Not bad, nevertheless. Choking on the Fitzrovia traffic fumes and wading through a viscous sea of summer smog, it would have been easy for me to miss this pub, sitting rather unobtrusively as it does at the bottom of an ugly office building. But I was desperate to escape from the soup of heavy particles laughably referred to as 'London air', and was trying to enter anything that looked vaguely pub-like. After several failures, I happily fell through a door into a familiar cool and mellow atmosphere known as The Monday Evening Drift. Despite suffering from apostrophe-linked grammatical disorders, and a worryingly tiny range of beer, this is a solid, traditional-style boozer with limited outside tables, several TV screens showing sport and a pleasingly wide range of punters. A quiet, no frills kind of place, it was a bit of a winner. Not open weekends. Tucked away just off the choking hell of Marylebone Road, the Thornbury Castle inhabits a schizophrenic world dominated by, on the one hand, its locals, and on the other, the work crowd. Happily, it seems to comfortably accomodate both without becoming scarily insular or feeling the need to rip out all its furnishings and character and declare itself to be a 'bar and kitchen'. Scruffily furnished, generously sized and with Diwali-style fairy lights in the windows, its warm and unpretentious nature makes for an excellent place to while away the hours. Some real ales, TV, karaoke on Fridays. Not open Sunday. Exteriors can promise so much. On a dark and rainy night a faux-Tudor pub, with mottled light shining out from the intricate leaded windows, seems to offer up a slice of Pub Heaven. But no. Enter, and the illusion is soon dispelled. The Tudor Rose is strictly an atmosphere-free zone, despite the open fire (gas, actually - an attempt at a real fire as fake as the exterior) and the pleasant enough barman. An appallingly limited range of drinks on tap, plus the unimaginative interior and the transient, uninvolved clientele, leave it feeling like a railway waiting room. A missed opportunity. A great pub just off Edgeware Road, The Victory is the ideal place to get away from all the madness. Damien and his staff are always ready to go that extra mile to make your stay a very pleasant one. Whether you just want a drink or to dine Thai style then pay The Victory a visit. Not reviewed yet.

Want to review it? It wasn't the ancient beer bottles that did it. Nor was it the massed ranks of porcelain figurines in the windows, or the general breathless clutter of the place. No, it was the plates. There was a whole display of them, arranged on the ceiling and staring down at me. Plates bearing portraits of Prinecess Di, mostly, with a few of Charlie, some other fat-faced buffoons and the occasional Victorian Royal. Plates, hanging in the sky, just like plates shouldn't. The Greek philosopher Plato questioned how we know that one particular object fits into a certain category type - how we know, for instance, that a chair is a chair, despite chairs coming in all sorts of shapes and sizes. To Plato, the answer was that there exists something called the World of Forms, a kind of over-reaching reality in which the perfect version of each object type exists, and our knowledge of what constitutes a chair descends from our hazy, imperfect understanding of the World of Forms one. Unfortunately for Plato, his theory falls down on the issue of commemorative plates. They're just so stupid. I mean - decorative plates? "Come in here darling and have a look at the glorious plates hanging on the ceiling"? It's wrong. They cannot be eaten off (the paint contains lead) and indeed serve no useful function at all apart to fill up space in the advert section of the Mail on Sunday's magazine. This would seem to invalidate them as plates, and therefore mean they could not have any existence in the World of Forms at all, except as a wholly separate category themselves, and the form of the Ultimate Commemorative Plate (complete with picture of Princess Diana) is such a horrible thought that it trivialises and destroys the point of the World of Forms altogether. And so it was that I sat there, supping my pint and listening to the tourists yap over their Traditional English Thai Pub Meal, and I waved goodbye to Plato, and goodbye to the World of Forms. Thanks to the plates, everything is different now.

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