I was out with a mate one evening when she asked where I’d like to go. My response was immediate: “A pub with no atmosphere.” I cannot think of anywhere better. You get served straight away, you get a seat and, if you’re really lucky, there’s no music. Seriously, what’s not to like?
First things first: by “pub”, I mean the old-fashioned type, with carpets that stick to the soles of your shoes – no gastropub nonsense. I’m still fuming from the time I ordered fish and chips in one of these (unbeknown to me) gastropubs. It’s a simple meal; a British staple. How can you get that wrong? Well first, the fish and peas arrived on a slate slab (an item, by all rights, I should only come across in my dad’s shed). I’m no physicist, but if a dish contains peas, then having a totally flat surface to place them on is not ideal. Worse, for some inexplicable reason the chips had been separated from the fish and placed in a metal container, which, as I discovered when I foolhardily attempted to pick it up, was hot enough to cause third-degree burns. When I quite reasonably asked if they could not just bung everything on a plate, the look of disdain would have you believe I had asked the barman if I could abduct his first-born child.
In a pub with no atmosphere, there’s a very good chance you’ll be left alone. Admittedly, that’s something I no longer really have to worry about. As an overweight, middle-aged woman, I’m generally invisible to the opposite sex. But I’m not complaining. Once, a guy started chatting to me at the pub bar. To be polite, I chatted back for a minute or two and then went and sat down. He chose to follow and to talk at me nonstop. Eventually, I told him to stop as I had absolutely no interest in what he was talking about. His reply – as I stared him down – was that I was being a little bit off-putting. A little? Read the room, mate.
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I love a pub with no atmosphere because I’m lazy. Really lazy. Like most Londoners, I feel nothing but seething rage when someone stands on the wrong side of the escalator on the tube, even though I have never walked down an escalator, let alone up one. But given that, you’ll understand that I certainly don’t enjoy the eternity spent standing at the bar of an atmospheric pub, waiting to order. I also react badly if someone tries to push in front of me. A woman recently did exactly that while I was ordering my Sunday lunch. Needless to say, she didn’t succeed. Needless to say, she won’t try it again. But really, who needs the hassle?
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I spent a good part of my 80s youth living in Paris and Vienna, where cafes are much more of a thing. I liked that. As a student in Vienna in the 80s, I would pay 20 schillings (£1) for a coffee in what the Viennese term “a coffee house”. I could – without disturbance, without two-bit Lotharios, without the random annoyances of the saloon or snug bar – avail myself of newspapers from all around the world, including the UK. This meant I could learn what was happening back home, albeit three days after it had happened. There’s a lot to be said for living in peace, and behind the curve.
Of course, my real nightmare begins when I go to a local pub with no atmosphere and inexplicably find it frantic and busy. It’s a kind of betrayal. This has happened to me twice. Once, seeking out a quiet Sunday lunch in a usually half-empty pub, I inadvertently timed my arrival with the ending of the pantomime in the function room above. So not only was the pub too busy, it was also packed with overexcited mini-humans running around, seemingly immune to any form of control or parental discipline. The second time, I interrupted a packed carol service and literally had to fight my way to the bar. Peace on Earth? Goodwill to all men? Yeah, right: sod off out of my way, I want my lunch.
So, here is my advice. If you’re looking for a night out, an occasion where you can actually chat with your mates over a drink or two, then try a pub with no atmosphere. Just as long as it’s not mine!
