Penge pubs

A bold experiment, this. Penge's Bridge Inn was once just a musty shadow under the railway tracks, but new owners have come in with an extraordinary vision. They seem to see a funky, cosmopolitan, self-confident district where others see a destroyed suburban tundra served by trains that arrive as frequently as Halley's comet. They have refurbished the Bridge Inn accordingly, and it's a pretty lavish job, departing from the New Baroque-by-numbers script in many and varied ways. There's now an expansive wooden deck at the front, a kind of strange cafeteria-style bit just inside the entrance, an Edwardian lounge next to that, and then upstairs gets all stripped-back and wooden, containing the bar, a few tables, a sofa or two and a long area that slightly reminds me of a school hall, followed by a patio and garden. Not small, then, and definitely food-oriented, with vast families of Pengeites drifting in for a monstrous (and monstrously expensive) repast. It's not all perfect: the beer selection is pretty crummy for somewhere with such lofty aims, the food is on the pricey side, and the black olives (okay, yeah, this is getting really petty) were pitted and dyed, i.e. came straight out of a supermarket tin, which is not really on when I'm paying £2.50 for a little bowl of them. But to be honest, such minor pretentious quibbles aside, the attention paid to this refurb, into creating what is essentially a brand new pub, has paid off handsomely, and it's a welcoming, relaxed, friendly place. Is Penge the new Islington? I often lay awake at night wondering if there can be any more to Penge than the Pawleyne Arms and the world's friendliest Homebase. Not that those aren't enough, but still... This, after all, is the town that people as diverse as Pat Sharp, Camille Pisarro, Mrs Beeton and Sir Thomas Crapper once called home. So I tried the Crooked Billet, a deceptively large looking pub just down the road from the picturesque (yes, and in Penge) old Watermen's Almshouses, and, er, well, I don't think it would quite be the environment for Pisarro. Not that it's bad, you understand, just basic, with a powerful line in swearing from some of the punters and a kind of shabby yellowish-orangey effect on the walls. The building is divided into two, with one area by the bar where most people seem to congregate, and a slightly more upmarket annexe where Pat Sharp must take his pint. In between is a kind of odd ante-chamber that was full of a Christmas tree when I was in. Get past the swearing and the punters are pretty nice, as was the barman, and they do at least have real ales on tap, and go in for some late night disco type things on a Saturday. Sky Sports and excitable West Ham fans come as extras. Not reviewed yet.

Want to review it? What's in a name? Well, lots, actually. Take Penge, shoehorned onto the same train line as the equally ridiculous (if further away) Leatherhead and Dorking. Penge. Roll it around the tongue for a bit, try to conjure up pleasant associations with it. Doesn't work, does it? It always has a whiff of the absurd, of maladjusted and tubeless Southeast London chav. Then throw the equally inexplicable Pawleyne into the mix, and picture a battered green pub with frosted windows at the end of the 176 bus route, parked at the crossroads of the bleak, post-apocalyptic town centre, all empty pizza parlours, track-suited loons, door shops (yes!) and misplaced apostrophes. It was the review I'd been dreading, but armed with a brand new toilet seat and the foolish optimism of a West Ham victory over Man Utd, I walked in. And... and... and... Short of the plasma screens and the gazebo in the concrete garden, I don't think a lot has changed in here over the years. At the front is the pool room and at the back is the sitting area, with plenty of tables arrayed over one of those stunning pub carpets that just don't get made anymore. The barmaids were cheerful and attentive, before their metamorphosis into an improbably multi-tasking cellarman that looked like he had walked out of a Dickens novel. One real ale on tap, otherwise all the usual nonsense, but the real pull here, the absolute crucial element of the place, is the atmosphere. The straightforward, down-to-earth boozerness of the place is amply reflected in the clientele, who were easy going, friendly and cheerful, seeming to come from all parts of Penge's diverse community and happy to leave whatever judgements they may have at the doorstep. This is it, my Damascene moment: the Pawleyene Arms, previously an object of ridicule as I passed it on the bus, is now the centre of the universe. All roads lead to Penge. You have been warned.

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