Described variously as an English, Scottish (and probably Irish, as well) pub, The Royal Mile is a dark wood haven of Anglo-Celt fermented goodness. The beer list is comprised with heavy emphasis on these three lovely locations.
My wife and I stopped in for some pub victuals and a beer, both of us going for the hand-pulled Fuller’s London Porter. My pint hits the table, and I have to go and notice the Orkney Skullsplitter! But I’m a happy guy with my other good beer, and peruse the menu with minimal self-pity. The Fuller’s tasted great, perfect for the weather, barometric pressure and the tilt of the earth.
Mr. Bartender-Waiter shows up before I’m ready, but since my wife is spouting off her order, I blurt out, “fish ‘n chips,” knowing full-well that I’m solidly land-locked. Our food was fair-to-midland. My wife had a “hair-raising” concern about her steak and Guinness pie, which was compounded by the cook’s antics over by the bar. He’s arranging his pony tail, scratching his rear end and playing with his Praying Mantis while talking loudly and dumbly. Is dumbly an adverb? It is now.
He returns to the kitchen with his Mantis cage in tow, but I worry not, as I know they have one of those signs posted reminding him to wash his hands before returning to work.
Will I return? Yes, when I’m in the mood for the atmosphere, when I’m thirsty and not hungry. After all, they’ve got the Orkney goodness there (and many other good beers).