In Praise of Gastropubs

My first ever catering job was in a pub kitchen exactly ten years ago in 1998. But it was anything but Gastro. Scottish and Newcastle owned it and the only thing we had to cook were omelettes. Everything else was pre-portioned and frozen, or came in a dreaded oversized catering pack. I lived off Curly Fries and Garlic Mayo Sandwiches for the summer and learnt more about industrial cleaning products than I did about cooking. Not so happy days.

Recently I'd been lulled into thinking that things had changed. On Saturday, it all came flooding back. Driving back to London with the folks, we aimed at a pub Dad remembered from a few years back that had a gorgeous Thames-side location just outside Oxford: The Kings Arms at Sandford-on-Thames. Remember that name and file it under Never Ever. The whole place was ghastly, starting with the blackboard propped up outside than "greated" us warmly and beckoned us inside with meaningless flowery prose about tending to our needs.

All the Crap Pub alarm bells started to ring inside my head, to be confirmed by the harvest festival of mayonnaise and ketchup sachets on a table by the door. For some reason we stayed. When we came to order, I asked whether my coeliac mother could have the bacon-wrapped-mozarella-stuffed-chicken with the tomato and basil sauce.

-She's gluten what?
-Gluten free. She can't eat any wheat products or anything with flour in it.
-Oh. (Pause. Whirring cogs audible.) I'll check with Chef.

Chef my arse. In the end, two people had to go and ask The Microwave Man and eventually the answer was "We don't know, it all comes in packets". What could she eat on the menu? "How about the salad bowl?" The one with pasta and croutons? "Yes". We left hungry. Apparently we should phone ahead in future, presumably to give the time to read the ingredients on the packets and look words like gluten up in a dictionary. I doubt we will, mind.

Anyway, back to gastropubs. Yes, they have ruined a few classic old time boozers but they have rescued some shit ones too. And, anyway, what's wrong with a pub offering an edible plate of food that wasn't made in a factory? Italians have cheap, local trattorias, the French have bistros, the Greeks tavernas. Why shouldn't I eat something decent in a pub? It doesn't have to be (and bloody well shouldn't be) a Michelin rip-off with tians of aubergines or foie gras sauces. A decent pasta dish or homemade pie will do nicely, a simply grilled lemon sole or some crisply fried squid. It's not much to ask is it?

In my head, I compose the perfect ploughmans just as I imagine musicians do songs and poets haikus: a big slab of pork pie with real jelly, some properly mature hard cheese, a decent local apple, a dab of homemade chutney, a spicy pickled onion and maybe a slice of some chewy, rustic bread. One day, I'll buy a pub and do it. You watch me.