BAR SAUSAGES. They’re not difficult to make, you know. Grill some delicious herby bangers, put them on a plate, serve with pot of mustard. JOB DONE.

And yet, a review of this pub could start with nothing else, so rare have these porcine treats become in the capital. This, despite the fact that there is so much else right with the place: the original partition doors making a trip to the gent’s an exercise in British limbo dancing – head first, bumbling, drunk, awkward; the well-kept ales; the dinky nooks and crannies with comfy chairs and heavy wooden surfaces; the lack of standing space, which in this part of the world, guarantees a lack of loud, bottle-carrying prognosticators invading your headspace; the spacious, relaxed walled garden area.

A rather atmospheric shot, don't you think? Thanks, Camra north london!

But I return to the sausages, for it’s a vital matter. This pub is a ‘heritage’ classic, found in all olde-worlde pub guides. Could this suggest that the bar sausage is associated with yesteryear, a quaint relic of pubs past? If so, it’s a dreadful state of affairs. These are our hot meaty snacks, and we can’t let them be pushed aside by awful, mass-produced crisps in their lurid, horrid packets. So. Bar sausages. Food of kings. Sermon ends.