The Shaws Booksellers, EC4

Impeccable Service and Fantastic Fish Sandwiches

So, there I was wandering the smog-stained streets near St Paul’s, desperate for some post-climb sustenance after conquering what felt like abandoned by gravity steps, when I happened upon Shaws, a rejuvenation temple masquerading as a simple pub. The place didn’t throb with the historic heart of the Cockpit or murmur the quiet charm of the Rising Sun, but what it lacks in vintage charisma, it compensates for with sheer bravura. Air conditioning, folks – sweet, sweet air con in the dog days of a London summer, accompanied by service quicker than Usain Bolt on an all-you-can-eat buffet night. If you ploughed into their fish finger sandwich, you'd feel as if Homo sapiens had just harpooned Neptune and served him in bread — a delight!.

My taste buds meandered through a landscape of urban fantasy greased with exquisite whitebait, crisped aright, marching in step with a burger that nearly danced a polka around my palate. Barely a detour from the main menu, mind, where chips, a triple-cooked apparition bathed deliciously in oil, serenade sugary cider droplets descending hallelujah-like. Oh, the hands that pressed shooters of draught cider into mine were gentle and spirited, with Bloody Mary ensemble wielding tomatoes like they’ve transformed autumn harvest into potable art. Whether your borne mind chases drinks over conversation or supremely shared plates, beer never tasted so positively hospital—that is, if hospitals were all hearty and conviviality instead of clinical steel chilliness—and Shaws did all this right, even sans dainty coleslaw to fancy the eye. A good jab for spontaneity rounds indeed. Bravo! — Milo Tastemaker