The Clapton Hart

Charming, Spacious Pub with Hipster Vibes

Ah, this particular establishment is a true case study in pub contradiction—traversing the creaky floors and sporadically lit alcoves evokes feelings of nostalgia mixed with a dread that seems to waft on the breeze like old ale. Picture if you will an intriguing menagerie that flaunts itself as equal parts expansive refuge and piercing cacophony. On entry, the initial delight of whispered history emanating from the pub's aged brickwork is punctuated, somewhat like a stiletto through silk, by echoes of discontent at the bar. Yet for all that might be said about uninspired Sunday roasts or frosty post-apocalyptic séances, there’s undeniable character. For some, it’s indeed distressingly chilly but then again those shivering at the prospect of creativity’s potential can huddle together in shared conspiratorial warmth.

If ever a restaurant bore the curious semblance of an oxymoron come alive, this would be it: plunging temperatures hopefully matched by perennially warm pints. Still, there's commendable amusement value in watching the jeremiads by the fireplace transform into merriment at the pool table. Over in the garden, there are those who revel in beer-soaked enlightenment under stained twinkling lamplights. I observed with relief, loyal pub denizens weaving camaraderie around a neatly groomed Guinness, a comforting pastoral activity in today’s clockwork routines. Certainly, service could be hastier and perhaps less cloaked in the injustice of indifferent indifference—but does not Gustave Flaubert opine “Le bon Dieu est dans le détail,” (God is in the details)? So is good pub life, or at least, such were my earnest hopes amid much jubilation-cum-misgiving. — Penelope Savory