What’s the name of that pub?

You remember, the one with the open fires, yummy cask ale and fab rooms. The one that did the best steak and chips on the planet and where there’s a great quiz night every Thursday.

Well, if you’re anything like us you just can’t remember its name when you need to. You can picture it perfectly but your brain’s like the mushy peas they served with their delicious beer batter cod.

That’s precisely why we invented Publister. Now you can create your very own lists of the pubs you love. You can have as many lists as you like. What about “My favourite pubs with accommodation” or “Country pubs with open fires”. You can save them, publish them and share them with whoever you like.

They automatically save to your profile, so the next time you need a reminder they’re all there.

Easy as pie – steak and ale of course!

Meat Wagon at the Rye

Having missed out on the legendary Meat Wagon when it was at its original home in New Cross I decided I must sample it when I discovered they had set up a kitchen down the road at one of my locals, The Rye on Peckham Rye Common, and find out whether the rumours were true and whether it is the best and meatiest burger around.

The Rye itself had a very relaxed atmosphere and on entering we were greeted by friendly staff at the small bar. The décor was certainly going for the ‘shabby chic’ look with purposeful distressed wallpaper on the walls and rubbed down paint surfaces on the bar and floor. There was a mixture of styles with the table and chairs, which were quite crammed together but this gave it an intimate feel. There is a massive beer garden at the back, had it not been a cold day we would have been out there but the roaring fire inside was more appealing.

I thought I should try a local ale and was instantly attracted to one called the Beaver. The bartender was kind enough to let me sample some and I was sold on it straight away. It definitely had a fruity flavour to it, which is probably why I was a fan. I should probably comment here that I am not an experienced ale drinker just like the occasional dabble. I discovered that this beer was brewed locally in one of their sister pubs The Florence, in Herne Hill. It was described on the pump as ‘fresh, floral, slightly spicy and a little satsumery,’ it was certainly refreshing and was a good accompaniment to wash down the burger.

I was not very adventurous in my choice of burger. I went for the bacon cheeseburger and my boyfriend went for the ‘Dead Hippie,’ which is apparently their take on the ‘Big Mac.’ I have to admit I was a bit feeble in that I ate it with a knife and fork but I wanted to sample every layer together. The meat was thick and tender and cooked perfectly for me being red in the middle. It crumbled and melted in the mouth. The cheese was properly melted to the burger. I did struggle though to taste the bacon. My boyfriend seemed to enjoy his ‘Dead Hippie,’ as it was quickly demolished, although apparently it was not as good as the original ‘Big Mac’ (I hope he was joking).

We ordered chips and coleslaw on the side. The chips were just the way I like them, thin and crispy and were a generous portion, unlike in other Burger joints. The coleslaw was delicious and was crunchy and mustardy.

Overall was definitely one of the best burgers I have had and lived up to the hype. It was all served in a white metal plates with blue rim, which made the experience more primal as burger eating should be, rather than delivered as a gourmet dish. The Rye’s vibe seems to be the perfect location for this food ethic to be housed.

By @immyshephard



The Magdalen Arms, Oxford

Oxford. The dreaming spires, the Bridge of Sighs, the rarefied heady air of academic excellence. The collective, almost palpable legacy that’s conjured up by some of the finest minds this country has ever produced being educated here. And me, striding purposefully through the grey mist of torrential rain pounding the Oxford pavements, a striking figure absorbing, pondering, head bulgingly intelligent, handsome, yet sensitive. But something is up, my face contorted in agony; tortured by the newly discovered linguistic contortion that Magdalen (to my mind, always literally verbalised as ‘Mag-Da-Len’) is actually pronounced as ‘Mawd-Lin’. Errr what?

This is of course extremely important. I’m headed to The Magdalen Arms, an Oxford gastro pub with something of an interesting pedigree. The owners having worked at what many consider to be one of the best gastropubs in London, The Anchor & Hope.
Taking over, by all accounts, what used to be a seriously rough old boozer and completely transforming it into a gastropub, The Magdalen Arms opened last year to rave reviews from bloggers and critics alike. Matthew Norman of The Guardian declaring it ‘among the very best of its kind in Britain’. Having read all this at the time, I’d stored it away for when I happened to be visiting Oxford again, and behold, here I was.
The pub itself is only a little way out from the centre, but it seemed a much longer trek when damp and trudging along in the rain with ‘E’ loping along beside me, cursing the distance walked and moaning about the weather in a constant stream of misery. Nevertheless I was excited.
The trouble with reading mounds of positive reviews beforehand is that your expectation level soars ridiculously, so unless you have an almost religious eating experience you’re often left feeling a bit cheated. I am of course aware of this, and try and rein it in a bit, but it’s true to say I was expecting great things.
The pub itself is a pleasant large period corner building, with a surprisingly massive interior; a bar runs the full length of the room with a dining area towards the back. The connection with the Anchor & Hope and Great Queen St obviously extends to the décor style, with walls painted in a striking colour (Plum in this instance) and the battered mismatched furniture, if you’ve ever been to the connected London gastropubs, it all feels very familiar.


The menu could be best described as British with Spanish touches, (Spanglish?) Padron peppers, and tapas plates mingle comfortably with steak pies and bread and butter pudding. Again the A&H influence is evident in the sharing dishes. Sadly, ‘E’s accursed pescatarianism once again wedged firmly into the spokes of my rampant carnivorousness and I could only sadly mouth ‘I want you’ whilst pawing softly at the entry for Hereford Steak & Ale Pie for three-ish to share on the menu.








I’ve tried brawn a few times, and despite being always being slightly repelled at the actual idea of eating a pigs head, when served up, pressed and thinly sliced it doesn’t actually resemble anything remotely head’ish and is actually quite pleasant in a surprisingly subtle way. If you’ve never tried it, do. If only to say you’ve eaten it once. (Which is often my raison d’être when tucking into something a bit strange). The brawn as served at The Magdalen Arms is the best I’ve had. Streaked with a punchy mustard sauce and scattered with capers, sliced shallots and parsley, it was really very good and I happily stuffed the lot in no time.








‘E’ ordered a whole globe artichoke, which came with a bowl of the same mustard sauce for dipping. I’ve never eaten artichoke like this before, plucking off petals and sucking and scraping the leaves to get at the understated vegetal goodness. So simple, but really quite lovely. With ‘E’ going at it industriously, it wasn’t long before the artichoke had become a scrapheap pile of green on the plate.








Considering the bloody awful weather outside, a somewhat autumnal sounding dish of Wild Rabbit, Chorizo Fennel and Puy lentils drizzled with aioli struck a chord, and the real testament to how good this rustic dish tasted, was the plate going back a steaming carcass, utterly devoid of any meat at all, picked so bare and dry it looked like it’d been sitting in the Arizona dessert for years. I absolutely love a nice bit of Thumper, Cottontail or Flopsy. (Word of advice, if you own a rabbit, and I ever come round…hide it).








Crab ravioli and salsa cruda arrived swimming in a bowl of tomato and fish broth and despite eliciting fairly content noises from ‘E’ didn’t really seem to hit the spot like the other dishes had for me. This sudden discordant note in proceedings wasn’t helped by an accompanying side salad that had to be sent back as it was overdressed, smothered in a pungent mustard dressing that overwhelmed everything else.











Despite it being July, the unseasonably dismal weather prompted me to go for something traditional and stodgy (I don’t need much excuse). Warm Marmalade Bread and Butter Pudding encircled by a moat of cream ticked all criteria. A donkey-choking sized portion, so massive it barely fitted into the bowl, I couldn’t help but rise to the challenge and eat it all…. making myself feel absolutely bloated and sick in the process. Disregarding my excesses, it was very good – just a subtle hint of marmalade, not too overpowering.











A warm chocolate pot, topped with cold cream was admirably simple and well made. ‘E’ loves chocolate-based desserts and seemed immensely pleased with this one. So, big thumbs up from her.

Ignoring the fact that I blundered out into the daylight in an almost complete food coma (curse that marmalade pudding), The Magdalen Arms provided a pretty good lunch. Expectations met. The overdressed salad and the so-so crab ravioli aside, some of the magic of its London based parent gastropubs has certainly rubbed off here. I think Matthew Normans ‘among the very best of its kind in Britain’ statement is maybe a tad exuberant, but there’s certainly no doubt that it’s very good. The next time I’m in Oxford, I’ll be heading back. 

By Dan V-N @essexeating

Top five cosy pubs

For me, today was officially the end of the summer. Although we are expecting an ‘Indian summer’ to kick-in at at any moment- it was cold, it was dark and as I am writing this it is pouring.

With the cool Autumn days creeping up on us there is no better place to hide from the weather than a cosy pub. Either with a good book or a bunch of friends, a warm and intimate pub, with log fire crackling in the background, is the perfect escape from the gloomy weather.

Here is our selection of the best cosy pubs.

The Bridge Inn, Devon:

This traditional ale house is tucked away in Topsham, Essex. An absolute must for ale connoisseurs, you can enjoy the ten real ales in the next to a roaring fire. With locally produced food served daily it is the perfect spot to while away a dull day.





Fox and Hounds, Oxfordshire:

This converted rural ale house is full of charm with cosy corners to enjoy a game of cards whilst sipping Brakspear tapped straight from the cask. The quirky and rustic restaurant serves farm-reared meat and local fruit and veg., with views out onto the garden. An idyllic spot to relax and unwind.





The Durham Ox, York:

Standing proud at the top of the Grand Old Duke of York’s hill, this old pub features thick flagstone walls, worn leather armchairs and big log fires. With three bars and as many menus this is the perfect pub to have a long and leisurely lunch on the most miserable of days.





George and Dragon, Kent:

This pub promotes the use of locally sourced produce including a range of beers from local micro breweries. Filled with character, it has all the traditional features; with low beams, huge fireplaces and thick flagstone walls. A lovely setting to enjoy a pint and a good book.





The Black Horse, Somerset:

This ex village lock-up is a throw back to past times with a dark, moody interior, scuffs from centuries of drinking  and antique remnants decorating the thick stone walls. The ales take pride of place with six jacketed casks on display. Why not find a comfy spot and try them all?

The Local

Bailey, one half of Boak and Bailey, recounts his quest for the perfect local.

Have you ever lived in a place without a local? Somewhere where there is no pub you feel at home in — nowhere you can go, just for one pint, after dinner on a dreary winter Wednesday, and be greeted with a cheery hello?

When I used to live in South London, my flatmate and I would spend ages trudging about the area trying on different pubs for size, hoping to come across one where we’d actually feel comfortable. Unfortunately, to a greater or lesser extent, they all resembled the Mos Eisley cantina from Star Wars.

The nearest pub was just macabre. It had a skeleton made of cigarette ends hanging on the wall (really) and our conversation would frequently be drowned out by Scandinavian coach parties singing along to the resident Hammond organist. (No, I don’t understand why they were there either.)

The next one was so quiet and in such poor repair that we didn’t even realise it was still trading for several months until we happened to notice the door open one day. The windows were fly-blown; the net curtains were nicotine-stained to the colour of antique pine; and it smelled like damp trainers. We managed one pint there.

Finally, there was a pub built into the bottom of a block of flats where the landlord told us that, if we didn’t support Millwall, we should get out while we still could walk. This wasn’t banter: he really was worried about our safety and didn’t want blood on the lino.

Ten years later, I was living in Walthamstow in East London, where I found a proper local. This is London we’re talking about, of course, so no-one was going over the top with the friendliness, but they at least recognised us from one visit to the next. The beer was great and the range kept expanding. Most importantly, there was no post-work grump so severe it couldn’t be cured by a trip there. It was a happy place.
If you’re lucky enough to have a good local, cherish it, and show your love the best way there is: by going there lots and buying plenty of beer.