Scotch Eggs: The Jugged Hare and The Old Red Cow, City of London

From humble utilitarian bar snack to fully evolved gastro pub status symbol, the recent gentrification of the Scotch egg speaks volumes about our current gastronomic zeitgeist. A bit broke without being totally penniless, the discerning punter now contextualizes the relative expense of their eating and drinking habits. Now, he or she rightly thinks: if it costs more, it should do more. So generic, only vaguely psychoactive piddle of the Carlsberg school has been replaced by potent double IPAs from as far as New Zealand and smoky porters from as close to home as Haggerston. We have come to realise, it seems, that while more bespoke pleasures may cost more, they also tastes twice as good and, crucially, pack twice the punch. 

The same but also the reverse is true of our dining habits: no longer can be regarded as slaves to the sit down meal. Rather, a splash out supper can now comprise a few small plates over some pisco sours at a trendy new joint like Ceviche or, if you’re really ancient, a comparable experience at the relatively geriatric Spuntino. Likewise, for considerably less trendy types like me, it can amount a bit of old school munch at a nice boozer – not the full on sausage and mash treatment so much as that wondrous deep-fried combination of chicken period, sausage meat, and bread crumbs, the Scotch egg. Sure, with some of the better ones approaching £5, it might all seem a bit excessive for a bar snack, but when you consider that Mark Hix would call it a starter, charge close to a tenner for it, and have it served to you by an arrogant turd, you realise that you’re almost approaching the realm of good value.

Because for all our pretensions as foodies - for all our affectations as crusaders of the smoked artichoke - sometimes it still is more about lining the stomach than chasing down the next temple of gastronomic greatness. Until about a year or so ago, I scarcely knew Scotch eggs existed outside of the odd roadside M&S en route to the mysterious territory known as the North. Now, they’re the first thing that cross my mind every time I step into a pub that seems to have an above average air about it. More often than not, I’m disappointed and presented with something that’s about as attractive as a graceless description of its raw ingredients. Occasionally I find myself satisfied, and ever so rarely I’m left wowed. 

The Jugged Hare is one place that elicit the less common response. As you would expect from the ETM Group – also known for the Botanist in Sloane Square and the Prince Arthur in London Fields - the recently opened Hare is a textbook posh pub. The deferential bar staff dress in waist coats and are attractive in a generic kind of way, there are lots of stuffed dead things, and much of the building is given over to full-scale dining. You really wouldn’t fancy your chances of getting served if you wandered in wearing a tracksuit, but it’s not so intimidating that you wouldn’t pop in just for a beer and ales are a real strength. The well-kept selection is focused around London breweries and is served in frosty mugs, a brave move that will no doubt irk traditionalists but one I fully endorse. Inevitably, the pricing is enthusiastic: the handpulls aren't too jawdropping, but bottles, including an excellent house pale ale, are a bit precious for my wallet. Still, so long as you have an ample budget and don't get too worked up by the 'City types' that tend to dominate this part of town, it’s a good spot to get a good beer. 

And a very good bar snack. Crispy skate knobs sound tempting, while chips and gravy seems deliberately out of place on the menu of a City gastropub, but it's really all about the Scotch egg. While the choice of meat filling comes across as knowingly upmarket, there is no question that this venison version is superb. Made fresh – so expect a short wait - it arrives warm, crisp and delicately crunchy on the outside, with rich gamey flavours lurking inside, along with an egg that is crucially still a bit runny. It's big enough to justify it's £4.50 price tag and the accompanying Cumberland sauce is another gutsy decision I thoroughly approve of and a further nod to the more righteous elements of Northern gastronomy. In fact, I would actually venture that it’s a much better partner as hot mustard can be too dominant at times.

Bavarian Beerhouse, Old Street

I’m a pretty cheap date. I can happily point out the redeeming features of a Nando’s, fully understand the cold functionality of a Wetherspoon’s, and even occasionally appreciate London Transport. Hell, I actually really like Pizza Express. But I’ve come to realise that, however much of a gastronomic hussy I may be, I’m just not slutty enough for the Bavarian Beerhouse.

Before accepting to run this particular gauntlet, I did a bit of research. After looking at their website and briefly pondering their menu, every sensible part of me (and there are a few left) was screaming: “Don’t do it!” For some reason though, I felt obliged, perhaps because of the slight flattery that came with reviewing solely on the back of my blog’s name for the first time. So I told myself that I could be wrong about it, reminded myself that the exterior of my beloved Cirrik does itself down by way of a loutish kebab sign, and thought back to an alright meal I think I had in Mallorca once, where the menu was a similarly vulgar melange of cheap photography and flaccid description. But honestly, looking back, I shouldn’t have even been in the bookshop, let alone judging things by a certain clichéd bit of paper.

The best thing I can say about the Bavarian Beerhouse? Well, I can see that it serves a purpose of sorts, just like the Monster Raving Loony Party offer voters a choice, and heroin does exactly what it says on the tin. Slightly more downmarket and dingy than your average Student Union bar, the fact that drinking games aren’t only tolerated but openly encouraged speaks volumes about the target audience: office piss-ups, stag and hen nights, and football fans.

Yet for some reason, I was invited to review the food. Not to try and hit nails with the wrong end of a hammer surrounded by inebriated young ladies, nor to watch the next Bundesliga match and learn rude new songs in a foreign language. God knows why they wanted to self-flagellate on the PR front like this, for the food they serve is so dire, so mind numbingly terrible, it seems like an overt act of political one-upmanship. I’ve never had astoundingly wonderful food in Germany, but never anything this bad and I've certainly never been confronted by a ‘Hawaiian schnitzel’ on a menu - not exactly a good start for a place that bills itself as "traditional" and "authentic." In making even the most average Munich beer garden look like the height of gastronomic sophistication, it also makes England look undeniably shit for playing host to such a diabolical venue. In that sense, what a stereotypical example of efficiency it is.

Brew Dog Bar Bad Ass Burgers, Camden

The lack of interest in the burgers at London’s Brew Dog bar surprises me, if only because their menu – which also features a small selection of pizzas – was designed by Tim Anderson. Tim was the slightly nutty, totally loveable American Japanophile and craft beer fiend who triumphed on last year’s edition of Masterchef. With sliders. You read that correctly: he won the most prestigious amateur cooking competition in the United Kingdom with mini-burgers.

They were hardly ordinary sliders, mind, with his tribute to Los Angeles including a German smoked beer to invoke the city’s smog on the palate. It was his ability to create this kind of bizarre gastronomic nostalgia and his madcap but genius deployment of unusual ingredients in even quirkier ways that helped him on his way to becoming the show’s youngest ever winner. So you would think that the prospect of burgers conceived and endorsed by the wacky Wisconsiner, accompanied by some of the finest brews in the land, would have London’s burgerholics flocking to Camden Town faster than the Great Red Donkey Andy Carroll would rewind to last season's January transfer window if he was able to.

Yet to date, only Burger Anarchy seems to have launched an investigation into the state of affairs in NW1. Are bloggers and beef patties falling out of love? Hardly. One needs only to witness the success of new arrivals like Brockley Market’s Motherflipper and Street Kitchen’s recent pop-up venture, Patty and Bun, to know that this is a gluttonous liaison with some serious shelf life. The blogospheric neglect is even more surprising because, in more ways than one, it’s a pretty decent burger. 

  

I’ve munched Brew Dog’s ‘Bad Ass’ burger on two occasions now. The first was following a lunchtime knees-up at the new Camden Brewery bar not long ago and was not the most instructive experience to judge by. Not only was I was I gradually becoming over-refreshed, but it’s kind of cruel to pronounce on food after yamming down two Big Apple Hot Dog’s in the sun. So a second bit of ‘research’ was clearly in order and while somewhat surprisingly I hadn’t missed anything too important, I was able to clarify a number of points. The three main ones were: it’s extraordinarily good value, the patty and its accompaniments – especially the sauce - are better than fine, and the bun is absolutely fucking awful. 

Real Ale and Rockin' Blues Festival, Sebright Arms, Bethnal Green

One of the hazards of formally announcing the arrival of Britain’s craft beer revolution is that it puts heaps of pressure on the business and small upstarts in particular. It’s a double-edged sword. Healthy competition and a desire to stand out by way of genuine innovation is obviously a good thing, but there’s also a danger of stagnation: either dozens of Brew Dog clones announcing themselves, or long spells with nothing worth shouting about because potential brewers don’t want to risk paling into comparison to the Scottish mavericks. At present, these are thankfully just minor unfounded fears to bear in mind for the future, as a recent tasting of three new London microbreweries revealed the next wave of the capital’s craft brews to match the quality of their predecessors.

The star of my Saturday afternoon spent drinking – ahem, researching - at last weekend’s Real Ale and Rockin’ Blues Festival at the Sebright Arms near Bethnal Green was undoubtedly the Weird Beard Brew Co’s Single Hop No.7 Summit IPA. Lightly hazy in colour due to the dry hopping process, its subtle nose belied a truly explosive palate: slightly sweet and delicately floral, it was packed with exotic fruit flavours. Perhaps it’s just my imagination, but I was getting serious hits of kiwi and guava from that bad boy. Comparisons are lazy but inevitable: its quality couldn’t help but remind me of some of Kernel’s single hop offerings, but don’t get me wrong, this was no mere knock off. It was as fresh, unique, and vibrant a bottled beer as I have had the pleasure to sup in a long time, and if this effort is anything to judge by, then Weird Beard Brew Co look a good bet to take a seat in Britain’s pantheon of elite craft brewers.