Damien Galeone

We are in London. The flight was fine. The Stanstead shuttle was easy. The tube was efficient. Now, we are walking from our local tube station towards our hotel. We are staying in a little area called Shepherd’s Bush, a name about which I have been creating little jokes about. None of them, however, are either funny or succinct enough for out loud so I keep them to myself.

“What the hell do you keep giggling at?” Burke asks.

“Nothing.”

As we walk to our hotel, I keep my eyes peeled and my head on a swivel. I always like to locate certain things near my hotel: convenience stores, cafes, restaurants, home repair shop, post office, strip joints (to avoid), a place to get small bills. And pubs. Specifically, I am looking for a local pub.

There’s nothing that makes a person feel at home more than a good local pub. A pub is where you become accepted as a local. It’s where you see familiar faces. The waitresses not only learn your drink, but they anticipate you. Moreover, they don’t seem to actively despise you.

On the way to our hotel, there’s little by way of drinkery. Maybe one or two places. Had I been searching for a kebab joint, a place to buy burner phones, or American fast food I had the pick of the litter. When we get to the hotel, a phrenetic little man tells us that most of the pubs are the other direction. I breathe a sigh of relief and we march out in search of our local away from home.

The first place has many beers on tap. A glimpse at the menu tells a story about American bar food: wings, ribs, burgers, mac & cheese, grilled cheese sandwiches. I am smitten, but a distant red flag gets chucked in the back of my brain by a little referee. I shake him away and go to the bar to order beers. The woman is kind and efficient. Her English is clear and understandable. We get sent to a different room as the tables in the barroom are reserved. The other room resembles an American diner. This is not a fluke; it is by design. I feel like I am sitting in an American diner in 1958. James Dean could walk in the door and ask if there was a mechanic.

Suddenly, I realize my initial hesitation. I am in London. I am not in Indianapolis. I don’t want a diner, I want a British pub. I don’t want burgers, I want fish and chips. Also, I’m not comfortable understanding all of what a British person is saying to me. Where’s the element of surprise born of gluttal stops and the absolute confusion brought on by British idioms? Not in this diner. We order enough American diner food to keep alive American stereotypes for a while. We drink four beers. I pay the tab and we leave.

The next place is a chain we will see all over London. It’s a perfect British pub. Ask and ye have shall receive is the motto tap dancing through my noggin. It’s got the dining room tables, the hightops, the corner tables I know to be oh so British. The carpet is a paisley pattern that could induce epileptic fits. There are several beers on tap – including 5 cask beers. The menu is meat pies, fish and chips, and sausage and mash. No Americana here! The bartender is kind and I understand about 78% of what he’s saying. This is a contender!

After four beers, I remember an important aspect of the local pub. The local part. This is a fifteen-minute walk from our hotel. Not bad, but not great. Also, I begin to notice things about this pub. The tables, chairs, and carpets match. Match! The place is too uniform. And then there were the bartenders’ uniforms. No, sadly not. We leave.

We get back to our hotel and both have interest in a nightcap. However else can you ascertain a throbbing headache in the morning? But where? Nothing presented itself on the way. But what is this? Just a half a block from out hotel? A pub. I lead the way quickly – because, among other reasons, fifteen minutes was four minutes longer than my bladder wanted to wait for release.

The Richmond. In the US, The Richmond would be a hoity toity place where old people went to talk about their prostates and their disappointing grandkids. Nevertheless, little is to be lost. We are encouraged by a sign outside: Dogs Welcome!  I order two beers and the woman pours them and gives me an imperative. I shake my head. Who the fuck is Uncle Bob? She holds up the credit card reader. Oh… The tables are mismatched. The carpet has a cigarette burn in it the length of the USS Hornet. The guys playing pool look about two seconds away from swinging their sticks at each other’s heads. There is a man telling a story and I can pick up about every 8^th word or so and most of those are prepositions.

This might be it. We go outside to the park benches in the courtyard. We drink and listen to the other tables chat and laugh. I ask the bartender where she would get late night fast food and she points me confidently across the street to a gyro place. I stumble out into the street. In six minutes I am on my bed eating a gyro (I think) and watching Law and Order.

The next night, I enter The Richmond and the bartender gives me a wave. What she says along with the wave is known only to God.

“A Guinness and a Neck’s IPA?”

“Yes!”

“How was the gyro?”

I am home.