The journey of the pub and its position in the eyes of society, 1980-2010: a thesis.

If only I could be arsed/clever enough to do such a thing: there’s broadsheet supplements to do that for me. But this place is all that we know of gastro, of the smoking ban, from Jamie Oliver through to that jowly eggy chump ‑ it’s the story of food in public. As a historical diorama, you can pop round the corner to the godawful Duke of York to look at an object example of how far we’ve come. It’s all very educational, really.

The exterior of Thos. Cubitt's establishment. This photo came from Fluid Foundation

Back at the TC, you can barely get to the bar for the chairs and tables, but no matter – this pub has table service. Actually, it’s Service with a capital S: not a teenager with a fistful of Post-Its, but a smartly choreographed front of house operation that goes a long way to quell those rising notes of bile when you realise that despite the sign, the ‘The’ in the name, the corner location, this is an eating house in Belgravia, and that in the eyes of the majority of the clientele, those popping in for a pint are, basically,  delinquent rejects.

This is a pub. Yes, a pub. Supposedly. (This photo came from Fluid Foundation )

The food is fantastic; the staff are great; the light-filled front area and fandaculous interior decoration makes you feel a million dollars. It’s expensive, OF COURSE IT IS, so obvious it’s barely worth mentioning, but I did because I’m a penny-pinching shit.  You could do a lot worse, a whole lot worse, a universe worth of worse in this part of the world; suck up the snazz of the plummiest pub you’ll find within spitting distance of a coach station.

• Address:
• 44 Elizabeth Street
• London, UK SW1W 9PA
• Tel: 020 7730 6060