St James's pubs

Small, crowded - but most importantly open on a Saturday - pub in the little knot of roads behind Jermyn Street. Friendly and, um, very intimate, it's usually hard to find an empty table, and on most of my recent visits I've found myself holding court over the cigarette machine, which is rather bizarrely installed at knee-level. Very solid middle-of-the-road boozer that charms despite not doing anything overly spectacular. More people out on the pavement than in the pub, which I find rather pointless. Why go to a marvellously untouched Victorian public house only to stand outside, drinking in the traffic fumes and being run over by taxis? This isn't a large pub, but the fact that at 6.00pm on a Friday I could find a seat at the bar, while outside a horde of suits, tourists and loud young men with lardy arses milled around shouting, speaks volumes for why so many pubs have been gutted, then transformed into sub Slug And Lettuce rubbish. The inside of this pub is wonderful, and I can't understand why everyone isn't in here, drinking in its atmosphere. The main saloon is split into two discrete rooms, an oval bar staffed by cheerful but bewildered Brazilians serving both. Frosted and/or mottled glass windows and dark furnishing keep the light to an eerily yellow minimum. All the period details are thankfully in place, providing that delighful second-pint feeling of slipping through time. There's quiet, unobtrusive music, but mostly this pub is warmed by the gentle hum of conversation. While the lunatics and tourists mill outside, the inside is a mixture of regulars and - gasp! - locals (a very exclusive breed) chatting away pleasantly. An intriguing stairway - a definite architectural folly, if ever I've seen one, an unneccesarily extravagant spiral staircase twisting visibly for its full length from basement to first floor - adds a strange element of character to the place. Small, endearing, restful - one for an evening of quiet contemplation. Pall Mall, with its gentlemen's clubs and bossy imperial architecture, is the last place you would expect to find somewhere boasting to be "London's last village pub". Nevertheless, there's the sign saying as much, close by the western end of the street, pointing down a rather gloomy passage. By following the arrow the curious wanderer descends into a peculiar Victorian backstreet, a narrow, almost lightless alley crowded in by tall buildings on every side. There's a sandwich shop, a milliner and, yellow windows twinkling cheerfully, the rather charming Red Lion, which really does its best to fulfil the claim on the plaque. Inside is a very small, very traditional pub with an effigy of the red lion sat in a window all of its very own. It does real ales (the pub, that is, not the lion), has Sky Sports and is filled by a bunch of punters who obviously enjoy spending most of the evening doing sardine impersonations, considering the tiny space fills up very quickly, and the crowds just seem to keep entering. Spare tables can usually be found on a Saturday, and business is so quiet on a Sunday that the pub doesn't even open. Friendly staff and a very laid back atmosphere (as much as is possible with twelve people squeezing under your armpit) make for an excellent pub. Babmaes Street, as well as being impossible to spell and pronounce, is also difficult to find, being a low-key, grotty turn-off from Jermyn Street. So why bother? Well, put simply, the best pub in St James’s. Get past the almost unnoticeable entrance and you find yourself in a traditionally laid out boozer, all dark furnishings, large tables and a lively crowd. Mostly angled at the post-work crew (and, rather bizarrely, closing at 6 on a Saturday, and not bothering to open at all on a Sunday) it has a fairly decent range of real ales and does a decent food selection. The main draw, however, is the excellent atmosphere and down-to-earth feel of the place, which makes for an excellent stopover on any weekday evening.

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