Slow Death in a Gastropub
There is nothing less relevant to modern life than a mid-level corp-core gastropub. Born from a need to diversify earnings in the hospitality space, they were sold to us as an elevation. There is just one problem with that — you cannot improve upon perfection.
Before I continue, I want to define my chosen adversary: I am not here to attack food pubs, which are great pubs that also serve great food. I am solely focusing my laser-hot critique at buildings which were once pubs, which are no more. Places where black pudding starters are always topped with a poached egg, and where the beer is flat, the wine is overpriced, and the staff have to wear a tie.
To me, the British pub is sacrosanct, an institution refined over many hundreds of years to fit the roles we, the public, require it to fill. Community space. Drinking den. Quiet privacy. Birthday party location. Debate chamber. Thanks to decades of use, it can be whatever you want it to be. A gastropub, however, cannot. It has had its soul ripped out and replaced by pastel tartan banquets and a million stag motifs. No matter how quaint and beautiful the outside may still be, through the door is a hellscape of dining tables you’ll feel awkward to sit at with only a few pints between you. That’s the point. These places don’t want drinkers, they want diners — that’s who they cater to now the margins for drinks are so low. So why still call yourself a pub when you’re so desperately trying not to be one?
There are people who enjoy the polished atmosphere of a gastropub, I’m sure, but that is not me. I sit with an uninspiring pint of local bitter in front of me on a branded-up beer mat, and wonder which marketing agency chose the fonts for their menus, the prints on their walls. An obligatory collection of brasses sits on a shelf next to some books chosen for their covers, never read by a guest. The flowers on my table are plastic forget-me-nots in a galvanised steel mini bucket. I can almost smell the coats of Farrow & Ball Breakfast Room Green, but it feels aged. There is music, the sort of soft, inoffensive music that drives me absolutely fucking batshit. I involuntarily pick out some of the lyrics, wondering how such a perfect match was made between atmosphere and soundtrack. I’m approached by someone in a crisp white shirt, black apron and tie who wants to know if I’m dining today. No thank you. I’m just waiting for a friend. That’s fine they say (oh good, I am glad) but the table is needed in an hour. Look around at the empty tables around me, all reserved. At least someone is coming here. At least someone enjoys this slow death. But it’s not me. I text my friend and tell them I’m moving on, and head to a place with fewer glowing reviews and a landlord who knows me by name.
