Nightingale

Monika works the bar at this salt-of-the-earth pub, dispensing pints (Woodforde’s Wherry, Black Sheep, Doom Bar) to first-name-terms regulars and occasionally bringing a pint to old George at his corner table as his legs only take him as far as the pub door itself. Her counter serves both the main bar and saloon bar behind it, where ruddy-faced men of brotherhood age, having forsaken manly pint-horsing for the security of married life, sit in silence with their wives, not quite out of earshot of the swearing on the other side.

Both bar areas are social-club comfortable – green upholstered furniture, red carpet – and reflect the sporting interests of the landlord (framed West Ham shirt, signed QPR one, collection of tickets to sundry matches).

The food’s a grab-bag of Brit dishes and more exotic imports (Thai green curry, say); there’s Irish music once a week.