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LONDON PUBS
filled border and share a bottle of champagne. It’s
a perfect English day. The owner, Julie Griffiths,
flits from guest to guest, taking orders for lunch
and offering a choice of tables. “Sun or shade?”
she asks, which is not a question you’re used to
hearing in England, even in the summertime.
We take for a table on the terrace in the shade of
the vines. None of the chairs or tables matches; as
at the Eagle, not being too matchy-matchy seems
to signal that you’re not a formal restaurant. The
guests don’t match either, but they do have one
thing in common: all appear to be well off, even
the paunchy man wandering around in flip-flops
and camouflage shorts with his shirt hanging
open. In the parking lot a scarlet AC Bristol, a classic
British sports car, stands alongside a number
of sleek German automobiles. However, there are
more ostentatious ways to arrive.
“We saw one man arrive by helicopter and walk
up the lawn with a girl on each arm,” says Vic Gaffin,
who is dining with his wife, Linda, at the next
table. Vic and Linda have been regulars at the Napier
for 35 years, and plan to celebrate their wedding
anniversary here. “I’ve eaten at a lot of restaurants
all over the world with my job, traveling
to more than 50 countries, and this is my favorite
place,” Vic says. “It’s because of the ambience. The
food is good but the ambience is even better.”
For lunch, I choose crab salad with a glass of
Viognier, then ox cheek with burgundy. Bobo
starts with scallops and Riesling, then grouse with
Côtes du Rhône. The food is impeccable. It’s easy
to appreciate why the Sir Charles is also one of
those Michelin-starred pubs.
After lunch, Vic and Linda give us a lift back
to the station. Despite the wonderful food and
setting, I can’t shake the feeling that something
has been lost along the way. It’s hard to think of
anywhere nicer to dine on a sunny day, but a truly
great pub can be enjoyed regardless of the weather.
As the line blurs between pubs and restaurants,
there’s a danger that pubs can lose their pub-ness.
IN 1943, GEORGE ORWELL WROTE an essay on his favorite
pub, The Moon Under Water. He specified that
a perfect pub should have “draught stout, open
fires, cheap meals, a garden, motherly barmaids
and no radio… The barmaids know most of their
customers by name, and take a personal interest
in everyone. They are all middle-aged women –
Called to the bar:
The cheerfully
cluttered – and
ever-popular –
Churchill Arms
62 DECEMBER 2012/JANUARY 2013 SCANORAMA
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