This is an open love letter to pubs. By Mel Buttle, comedian
A good pub makes you feel both at home and comfortable, but a great pub makes me feel like getting a tattoo.
Going out for dinner to a restaurant is one thing, and, yes, restaurants have their place, but going up the pub, and, yes, you do go “up” the pub, is an entirely different evening and, for me, it’s something quite special. I cherish those nights where you fluke it and there’s an amazing live musician and a special on beef cheeks.
Call me a bogan if you like, you’re probably right, but give me a schnitty over some fine dining dish that needs a preamble from the waiter and instructions on how to eat it.
I love pubs, all pubs, the sticky carpeted ones with a chalk blackboard of specials, the cosy ones with a fireplace and worn leather couches.
I love the old-school pubs that still do meat tray raffles, with a chorus of blokes in the front bar who turn in unison and stare whenever someone new walks in.
Stare away, boys, don’t let the floral fool you, I’m here to sink beers, eat steak and place shockingly uninformed bets.
I even have a place in my heart for those modern glass and chrome, faux palm tree pubs with their playgrounds and $16 glasses of house red.
I love the smell that hits you as you duck in off the street inside a proper old-school pub. It’s probably just old beer soaked into carpet, but it’s a smell similar to the scent of churches or old book shops. To be honest it’s not a great smell, but once it hits my nostrils I know I’m in for a bloody good time.
I remember my first-ever pub visit – we went with “our neighbours down the back” as my mum would say. It was on this night, at the local tavern, that I first tried the culinary delights that are chicken nuggets and, for dessert, a waffle with vanilla ice cream.
I was blown away that we ate dinner in semi darkness here. I asked Mum why it was so dark. “To set the mood,” she said.
This was the ’80s when smoking was allowed inside and I had to be taken outside while our neighbour Tony had his after-dinner cigarette. I remember being carried out while others at our table insisted, “Leave her, she’ll be right.” I cried, firstly because all the attention was on me and I thought I was in trouble and then again when we returned to the table and my ice cream had turned to milk. It was a baptism of fire to pub dining.
I love that all pubs just seem to know what we want to eat. People fall into two categories – you’re either there for the schnitty or the steak, the rest is filler. Look, I’ve done it too, I’ve strayed off course and tried the lasagne, or got confused and ordered the bangers and mash, only to sit there longingly staring at the others at the table who went with a schnitty or the rump with mushroom sauce, the heavy hitters.
I can order at any pub in Australia without even looking at the menu, I’m a medium rare rump (or rib fillet if it’s pay week) with mushroom sauce (two sauces if it’s pay week), chips and salad. What an excellent, perfect meal that is.
My method of attack is simple: I start by clearing the salad out of the way – I like to quickly eat anything that’s not going to flourish with the addition of mushroom sauce. Then it’s the steak, that’s the most expensive bit, then if I have room it’s chippie time. Tip for new players, the best chips are the ones under the steak.
It’s the weekend, it’s prime pub time. Ask someone if they want to go up the pub and if they flinch at your grammar, there’s your answer – they don’t get it.
Image: Mel Buttle, Token