Going Down The Pub

When an expat like me discovered there's an "authentic" British pub, located in a mall complex, I think I'd got every right to be skeptical. I've survived my time in the US on imported beer, food parcels of HP Sauce and Jaffa Cakes, and whatever music and TV I can get my hands on. The larger grocery stores do stock some traditional "English" fare, located in the ethnic section. Understandably, my expectations for the American take on a British "pub" were pretty darn low, particularly since it's wedged between a TGI Friday's and a Logan's Roadhouse. Nevertheless, we managed to pack the kids off to the movies and thought we'd give it a try this weekend.

As we approached the place (painted black, of course, since all London pubs are black, honest) and noted the outside mural - a delightful pastiche where the Big Ben clock tower looms impossibly large over a hectic cobblestone street inexplicably blocked by one of Nelson's Column's lions - we prepared ourselves for some typical British smart-arse fun. The Union Flag was flying upside down (broad side up, lads!) and, yes, the correct name is the Union Flag (it's only the Union Jack when flying at sea). After walking in, the experience simply became more and more surreal. The centerpiece is indeed a Victorian-style bar, while the walls are decorated with posters for the Kinks and a bizarre collection of photographs of Diana, Princess of Wales mixed with Camilla, Duchess of Cornwall. The guy who runs the joint is apparently Irish. The staff are attired in tank tops, little kilts, and pop socks. The obligatory flat-screen TV's are playing sports of course, but apparently some second-rate rugby game. It seems the only music they had was Led Zeppelin. The bar area was bathed in broad daylight through huge picture windows (seriously, I don't think I've ever been in a real pub that had any windows at all). There was only one word that sprang to mind.

Epcot.

Let's face it, I really didn't expect anything else. This isn't a matter of authentic, and there was never any expectation of walking into the place and feeling "at home". It's more a question of giving the visitors what they expect, serving average fish and chips, bangers and mash, and chicken in a basket, and offering a couple of import beers on tap. Cold - the sin of it - and the bar staff certainly need some coaching on the correct way to pull a pint. OK, I admit it, I did loosen up a bit after I'd had a few, and the fish and chips wasn't bad either (although the Shepherd's Pie left a lot to be desired). I might have even succumbed to the illusion were it not for that continual reminder that you are in a US eatery - the restaurant manager, dressed in obligatory frilly white blouse, constantly coming up to you and asking if everything was OK, where what she really means is why are you still lounging around at that table, move along please, I've got other people to get in here.

As I sat at the table, getting nicely drunk (from the feet upwards, which means I make a complete fool of myself when I try to stand) I began to wonder about what "going down the pub" actually meant to me, and realized that not only was the entire pub concept an anachronism, but in my time, I'd seen it die. As a kid, I'd seen the traditional British pub all around me; from the Rovers Return on television to Andy Capp's wife waiting for him on the doorstep, rolling-pin in hand, ready to give him a beating once he staggered at home at closing time, flat-cap, cigarette and all. Pubs were smoky, claustrophobic affairs populated by working men in no hurry to get home, seemingly needed to prop up the bar to make sure it didn't fall over, and retirees hiding in the "snug" making the same pint last all night and clicking dominoes. The bar was run by a matronly yet terrifying older landlady with a tattoo on her right arm, twice the size of the other after years of pulling pints, surrounded by peroxide minions whose qualifications consisted of two CSE's and cleavage. More cerebral and cultural activities were reflected by weekly quiz night, where "that bloke with the Jeff Lynne haircut" would always snatch a last minute victory with his command of trivia about the 1966 World Cup Final, while, in the corner, a group performed astonishing feats of mental arithmetic calculating darts out-shots then proceeding to miss the board entirely because the level of the beer in the glass in their other hand threw them off-balance. We'd leave work at lunchtime for "a quick one", and be absolutely certain we'd be right back there at the end of the work day, "beer o'clock." This would never change. It would last forever. The only things we'd see would be the extension of hours which made it even harder to get us out of there. That would be the only progress here - this would be the constant that is forever England.

Of course, it did change. One by one, I saw all my favorite haunts change from tradition to yuppie wine bars; places where some posh girl would have replaced the working man on propping-up-the-bar duty as she sipped her Zinfandel. The video games moved in and ousted the darts and dominoes. Quiz night became coin-operated, and culture shortly found its nemesis. Karaoke. Someone decides the nicotine-stained walls need a bit of a sprucing-up, and decide that a scene where Marlon Brando and John Wayne looking across at Marilyn Monroe's skirt flying up, while John Travolta strikes a pose in the foreground, will be just the ticket. Some places resisted the change; some remained genuine spit-and-sawdust outfits, playing the Pogues at full blast and guaranteeing every police car in the neighborhood would be waiting outside at closing time, but for most, the English pub was already gone. The price of progress. At least, though, you could still buy a drink. And smoke. This would never change.

Of course, that was the next to go. England and Wales banned smoking in indoor public places in 2007, and, unless you could find a loophole, things did indeed change. What surprised me on hearing this news was how quietly everything had happened over there in the UK. Over here, as one town after another enforced the ban, people took their business elsewhere, until, of course, it's now virtually universal. I found myself saying, "This would never happen in England. Or Ireland. Not without a fight." However, it occured to me that is was thinking of times and attitudes long gone. The ban took effect and left relatively minor ripples.

That original image of the British pub that I'd grown up with was gone for good. It may not be a salubrious image, but it is indeed a memory - and, if the "British pub" theme bar is anything to go to, that memory is fading as well. Nostalgia just ain't want it used to be.

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