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The Bartender in London
Pursuing Pubs, Cold Tea and Knowing "The Knowledge"
Lorraine (left)
introduced The Bartender to Waxy O'Connors and a pair of patrons.
I didn't take this as a negative, but
immediately upon arriving in London for my first visit to the city,
I was greeted by a bomb scare. I couldn't get past the security area
and my friend who was there to meet me could not even get into the airport.
The thought of turning around and hopping the next jetliner back to
the States never penetrated my mind, however. Instead, I felt strangely
secure, knowing that the local authorities had our well-being in mind
well enough to keep us out of harm's way, even if it turned out there
was thankfully no harm headed our way.
Otherwise, London treated me like a VIP. The sun was out in mid-February
and the temperature was rather pleasant for that time of year (upper
50s). My hostess was a lively girl of Irish descent named Lorraine who
outpaced even me in the pint consumption department. Heaven help me
if I ever go to Dublin with her.
My favorite stop in London turned out to be an Irish pub called Waxy
O'Connor's. It's located down a tiny side street around the corner from
Planet Hollywood. It's like a castle in there, but not dressed up like
tacky theme bars in the States. Waxy's seemed authentic, and made me
feel as if I was drinking blood with the Knights of the Roundtable instead
of a pint with Lorraine. (Frankly, I much prefer the latter.)
It's packed most nights after about 8, and for good reason. It's also
huge, about the size of a real castle.
 Oddly,
I had trouble finding what I would describe as an authentic English
pub during the trip. Lorraine sure took me to enough places trying to
locate one, but none fit my idea of what an English pub should be like.
Maybe it had something to do with the fact that I could not define exactly
what I envisioned an authentic English pub to be, but I was positive
that once I found one, I sure would know it. Dark and smoky with dart
boards and pictures of Shakespeare on the wall, I suppose.
About the pubs, I found it peculiar that although they close at 11
p.m., they will serve you a pint at precisely 10:59:59, then immediately
demand you drink it and leave. Now why, I protested, were you so happy
to serve me a beer one second and expel me the very next? So, at the
pub in question, I managed to buy enough time to finish my pint by walking
around the chairs being lifted onto the tables.
I didn't get a chance to visit any of the crazy London clubs, although
Lorraine kept me out well past the pub hour at a few other places. One
was a restaurant, an oddity of London life that allows some eating places
to stay open late if they charge a few pounds for access after 11.
Lorraine lives in Battersea, across the Thames and away from the heart
of tourist London. It's a very cool place with trendy bars and a lot
of people dressed in black. Being from Los Angeles, it made me feel
right at home.
Speaking of black, I love the black cabs. They resemble the military
staff cars of World War II, and every time we got in one I felt like
General Eisenhower being taken to an important meeting with Churchill.
The drivers are a real trip, although they seem unable to drive in a
straight line for more than two blocks at a time. Just when I started
to get my bearings, they would suddenly swerve down a tiny side street
sending me flailing against Lorraine in the back seat (hey, I'm not
complaining, just reporting).
Lorraine mumbled something about "the Knowledge," although
it reminded me more of driving to the in-laws in the Southern U.S.,
where breaking the previous time record on a trip is a matter of family
bragging rights among the men. I can imagine the cabbies gathering over
coffee at the end of their shift saying something like: "I made
it from Carting Lane to Howick Place in 14-and-a-half minutes!"
Besides the bizarre pub law, the only other fault I found with London
is with the tea. That's because you can't get any freakin' iced tea
in this place! Oh, you can get all the hot tea you want. But hey, I
grew up in the Southern United States, where you become trained to love
this cool beverage even if it's not a hot and humid summer day.
In fact, other than beer, getting a cold beverage of any kind is tricky
in this town. Ask to have ice added to a soda (or to hot tea, as I attempted)
and you get ice not scooped from a huge bin like at home but fished
out of an ice bucket with a pair of tongs. The bartender will carefully
place into the glass exactly two small cubes (which have a hole in the
center like a tiny donut) which, of course, melt immediately upon contact
with the beverage.
Well, if that's all the negatives this town can throw at me, then it's
a pretty cool place for The Bartender to hang out. Cheerio!
 Next
Stop on the London Party Bus: Pre Party
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