Places to Quaff and Quarrel - The Black Griffin

The Black Griffin, Canterbury. Curious mythical beast, winged creature of yore, hovering claws and golden of okay I’ll stop. Here is the first in what I hope will be a series of some reviews of places I have visited and did not die in.

I had to meet a friend. I had to meet them for food and to discuss the best way to make people act, on stage, without use of electricity. We normally do this over a large plate of nachos and shame in a pub far away from the city centre. 

 

But I was restless, and had been browsing the internet, looking for something more than tortillas. After looking at several bars and some pictures of worried twigs for a period of time, I chance upon my past, in the form of The Black Griffin.

This photo of The Black Griffin is courtesy of TripAdvisor.
Thank you, Tripadvisor

This pub and I had a history. Not an unpleasant one, not like a rash or a nemesis. Let's call it a relationship that had run its course. We were both very different back then, at the turn of the century. The Black Griffin was called The Hobgoblin, and it was a black-doused rock pub, populated by metallers, goths, punk and the needy. I spent many a night in this pub with my then metal-obsessed partner. Sad story, really - he loved metal so much that he sadly expired while trying to gather some from a forge in Cornwall…..or he might be a DJ now. I’m not certain.

As time wore on, the Hobgoblin and I realised we wanted different things and we parted ways. Not long after I left, the pub had a serious overhaul and re-emerged as The Black Griffin (it's original name from many years back), a cleaner, brighter bar for the world to enjoy. The metallers left, and spent many years wondering the streets in an aimless leathery funk, quietly chanting Cradle of Filth lyrics until The Lady Luck opened a few doors down.

Since its facelift, the Griffin has flourished as a solid high street pub,but that's not to say it hasn't worked hard to bring a sense of individuality to its innards. Behind the bar, the ales are pleasingly above average, the largers are perfectly serviceable, and many, many spirits, shot and mixers tempt those can be turned. Hot spiced cider is available on these wintery nights, as are alcoholic slushies for hot days or for the child in you. Away from the bar, remnants of the pub's history languish alongside the staff’s quirky decorations. Dripping candles light up deals on Peroni, shabby chic hearts dangle above pumps of the thickest bitter, collages of black and white photos adorn a wall.....it's just a wall, sorry I ran out of comparrisons. It is quirky, with an olde world charm. Much like a Griffin itself!

I mean if you met a griffin now, it would be terrifying. But you’d have to acknowledge its ancient appeal. 

 

But anyway! Time has mellowed and molested me, so having spied some very favourable reviews of the pub and its food on the internet - currently ranked 9 out of Canterbury's 263 restaurants on Tripadvisor - I thought it might be time to give The Black Griffin another go.

I prepared in advance – I dispatched a trained ferret to enquire about food service times and to ascertain if any of my enemies would be there. I heard nothing back. I’m starting to doubt the value of using ferrets to do my dirty work. 

Therefore, I took to their Facebook page to make my enquiries. The BG team responded almost instantly, and with a cheery e-disposition and many helpful tips for my visit. So unlike the usual answer I get from businesses on Facebook, along the lines of “please stop messaging us, we don't know where the dead meet”. I was impressed. So to the BG I went. On arrival, I found a table already reserved and the bar staff offering drinks and giving no indication that they might try to burn me. Most welcome! 

It was Thursday and having spent much of the day investigating swans, I was in the mood for meat. I ordered a steak, while my companion ordered sausage and mash. 

 

An excellent meal was had. My rare steak was succulent, generous and cooked to perfection, certainly the best I’ve been served in some time. The unctuous peppercorn sauce had plenty of spice, and the hand-cut chips were gloriously golden and fluffy. My friend’s sausage and mash went down an equal storm – hearty sausages and creamy mash, bathed in flavourful gravy. It's worth mentioning that having built up a slight sensitivity to flour (due to doing Atkins so many times that it got sad), I can tell when kitchens pad out their dishes with flours and processed thickeners – none such trickery here. 

Portion sizes were also spot on, and I felt perfectly sated at the end of my meal (Sated in terms of my hunger. Not in terms of my need to find the 13^th Marquis of Cuttleworld. I shall never rest…).

While my cohort stuck to shandies, I had a choice of Merlot, Shiraz, Malbec and Pinot Noir by the glass (I was foolish enough not to ask where each wine came from, sorry). The Pinot Noir was adequate for the meal but was quite sharp, so I switched to the Shiraz for my second glass and found this far more quaffable, if a touch jammy. I did not ask about their white wines on this occasion; I was eating steak, not a ballet. 

 

My friend had only one sadness; an apparent lack of dessert on the menu. We may have been mistaken, however, and we did not ask the staff about any such thing, so it’s not really much of a complaint. It’s a terrible one, in fact. Ignore it. 

 

The bill for two mains, two large glasses of red and two larger shandies came to just under £33 - perfectly reasonable in my book.

As we left, the pub’s regular open mic night had just got underway,and was drawing quite the crowd. It was a lovely sight, but I could not stay for long to watch; I had an early meeting at work, plus the moon was growing full and it is bad luck to be out and about without an elk's head when the moon is fat. 

 

All in all, I must report a very pleasant evening. I will confess that I would not have previously thought of the Black Griffin as a place to dine. It has always been a drinking den to me, one I frequent infrequently. But that, I suspect, is going to change. I hope you will follow suit.

The Essentials

The Black Griffin, 40 St Peter's Street, Canterbury CT1 2BG. 

Tel: 01227 455255,
www.facebook.com/blackgriffincanterbury
Open Mon to Thus 11am to 11.30pm, Fri & Sat 11am to 12.30am, Sun 11am to 11pm. Food served to 9pm most evenings. Real open fire, courtyard beer garden and tables on the street. Live Music Mondays, Open Mic Night (Thurs).

Do it:    Excellent all round pub– great for food or for just drinking unstoppably of an evening.

Don’t:   If you need the full on gastro-pub vibe (and the inflated prices to match…)

A Life Without Internet

I'm living almost entirely without internet and I don't much care for it. And when I say 'I don't much care for it', what I really mean is I have a twitch now. A full on twitch. One that punches people.

I wasn't planning to write about this, as it's soooooooo boring to everyone else, but screw you, it's my blog and you will ruddy well have to sit there and like it.

My broadband, my sweet precious broadband up and died ten days ago. It was being a bit temperamental (bitchy, as the beau and I call it as we take everything personally), but now it is a total no go. Cue calls to Plusnet and a 30min wait while they deal with all the people who are being reeeeal uppity about the floods. 

I can almost touch it

I won't bore you with all the details. Essentially I waited a week for an engineer, found out it wasn't an external wiring problem, set up two laptops and one iPad with various wires to three routers, spoke to Japan (I think), and told technicians about 90 times that it was definitely them not me. It was exactly like my divorce.

Everyday, I get an email from a different member of staff telling me it's fine, and then it's not fine, and then it's all going to be okay, and then that they're sorry they had some wine and felt vulnerable and just wanted to talk.

Here is an excerpt of my correspondence on Twitter:
Why me? Why must I listen to multiple technicians telling me in a worried tone: "Oh....that really shouldn't happen. The computer SHOULD be talking to the router." Well it isn't! I think we can conclude that whatever sick relationship the two of them had is well and truly over. They are officially on non-speaking terms, the computer has moved into his cousin's flat and the router has signed up to Match.com, and it's time for us all to move on.

The router and the computer, the router and the computer, the router and the computer - I've heard this phrase so many times this weekend that I'm considering pitching it to Penguin as an idea for a children's book. But instead of the router and the computer being best friends, they are minions of the devil that fuck each other repeatedly in a bid to drive their owners so insane that they rip out their own spines. 

Unable to cope with the delays, I purchased a USB dongle from the Carphone Warehouse* thinking it would be better than the pathetic portable signal I get from my mobile. It isn't. I can get signal if I balance on a stool in the middle of my bedroom, while drinking a glass of water. Which is what I am doing now.

Look at these two, enjoying the internet.
 Well maybe this is why daddy left you!!!!

It is poor form, but the lack of internet has made me irritable and grouchy and angry all of the time. I need internet access for this here blog, but also so I can switch off during my down time. I like to use social media (if you couldn't tell already), I like to read other blogs and BBC News, I like to read about the Hindenburg and the JFK assassination at 2am when I can't sleep, I like to watch videos and download movies to my Xbox. I do these things to wind down my brain after work or at the start of the day before I start writing or reading or watching films. I NEED the internet.

Oh blah blah blah all of you who say ' you know, it's crazy but millions of people somehow managed to live without internet for YEARS.'

And you call that living?

I am old enough to remember when the internet was the stuff of a mad man's dreams. It existed, somewhere far away, and people spoke about it in wonderment: "Have you heard of this internet thing? You can send stuff to people around the world, even if you don't want to! I'd like to get me one of those."

In the early 1990s my dad, being a hopeless technophile, got one of the first internets. Hot of the presses, it was. Fit right inside the home, it did. He had various phone lines and modems installed all over his office (a shed in the garden), and his giant desktop computer hummed and chirruped daily with the promise of emails, movie trailers and awful, awful porn. It brought us closer together as a family.

I remember the days of CompuServe and my first forays into the very early world of social networking -  we called them 'chat rooms'. It took all of three minutes before I was stalked by a fat Star Wars fan. Ahh Obi Wan45, I often wonder whatever happened to him. I'm guessing he's dead.

Remember this? Innocent times
Courtesy of Wiki

I remember the day that dad managed to download a clip from Interview With A Vampire for me. I say 'day'. It actually took three weeks, and it cost my mother the use of her legs, for some reason, but it was worth it for that 30 seconds we saw of the film that would come out only a short time later.

Having grown up without internet for at least some of my life, you'd think I'd be able to cope well enough without it now. PAH, I say. PAH. I am the original crack baby, I am the person who can't come off their meds without dying - I got a taste for t'internet at a young age and I LIKED it. Don't act like I haven't suffered; dial-up modems, juddering downloads, BT's repeated lies, Internet cocking Explorer (I love you Firefox). I have crawled, bloodied and haggard, through the dark ages to this golden era of instant fibre optic bliss at every fingertip.

I have earned this. I will not go back to that hell hole. You'll never take me alive.

*I almost wrote Carwarephone there. That's not right.