London is known for many of its endearing features: grand architecture, sophisticated-sounding accents; the Queen; and of course, the corner pub with the same on-tap offerings and gruff cliental since before the locales grumblingly accepted the need for electricity. In fact, I’m not convinced that the Grand Masters of this city actually knew how to square off a block without a pub as the cornerstone.
Therefore, my expectation for my first London pub experience was high.
The Victoria is nestled among appropriately enough Victorian style row houses cuddling Hyde Park. Modern torches behind the line of outside tables divided my first impression from wondering if the pub had caught fire to hoping it had resisted the call to modernize through electricity.
The inside felt more like a stiff great aunt’s formal parlor than a place that serves alcohol. Dark wood and what would probably be considered valuable antiques in America packed the room. My friends and I waded through the crowd of hard-working lads who were in the mist of their evening commute via the neighborhood pub.
We found a cozy table near the fireplace and under the watchful gaze of a 1700s family portrait. Next to us, an older man straight out of Brigadoon stared hypnotically into his dark brew, maybe wondering how to return to his fabled village.
At this point I reached the crossroads of my pub experience: which pint should I order? Out of the seven on-tap offerings, I only recognized Guinness. I settled on a selection with London in its title, astutely deducting that the brew was a local brand.
As I enjoyed the surprisingly unusual flavors of the drink, my friend bust from the crowd from her trip to find the bathroom located at the top of a very narrow and twisted staircase. “You guys,” she said, “they have a library and a fireplace upstairs along with another small bar.”
It’s decided: I’ve stumbled into a Jane Austen book…I love British pubs!
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