Telephone: 020-7242 8521
Address: 53 Carey Street, London WC2
'Details," said the woman in a black suit at the bar. "Don't give me details. I've had details all week."
"Nepotism, necromancy, neophyte, call it what you like," said the man in a pin-striped suit at the table.
"Oooh, am I glad of that," said the woman in gaberdine trousers as she settled in her seat. "Glad of what?" said her friend.
"Glad for a drink. Glad to get the weight off my feet. Glad to be out of the office," said the first woman.
"Glad all over," said her friend, and they both laughed.
It was lunchtime in the Seven Stars.
A little down the street, on the edge of London's Chancery Lane, was a monster JD Wetherspoon palace of varieties: heaving, chocka, full to the gunnels. You wouldn't have been able to hear yourself speak, let alone anyone else, but in the Seven Stars all was relaxed, easy-going and civilised.
Just a few folk poddling over a glass of wine, a pint, a bit of lunch.
A bit of lunch: the menu is short. There are, perhaps, eight items on it in all - roast chicken with aïoli, rib-eye steak sandwich, plate of charcuterie, cured herrings in dill with potato salad, penne with something or other, Welsh rarebit, Cheddar cheese and oatcakes. It's hardly a menu at all, in fact, and certainly nothing to justify the description of it as a full-blown gastronomic public house. But there is something about that list that appeals, to me at any rate. It might have been the herrings that made me think that way, or the chicken: both bistro classics, nothing fancy, just decent, straightforward, nice, lunchly food.
Anyway, that's what I fancied and that's what I had. The herrings were very good indeed - long, elegant fillets, all silvery on one side and glossy with their sweet dill dressing. The potatoes were good, too, cooked to just this side of crumbly, breaking down into the oily vinaigrette, soaking it up, the ideal medium for transferring it to your mouth. The chicken wasn't quite in the same class. It was roasted through, and tasted fine, but the skin had a certain pallor and the aïoli had split. It didn't affect the taste, but it wasn't the sunflower-yellow, garlic-pungent blob that I had conjured up in my mind. But it all slipped down easily enough, helped by a pint of supreme Adnams bitter. When beer is as good as this, it's as perfect a foil to food as any wine. And that was it. I thought about the cheese and oatcakes for a moment, but decided against them. I was just full enough.
I opened the Guardian and began listening to the conversations around. I learned a lot about the degrees conferred by American religious universities, and about the workings of the legal mafia and about the internal politics of a particular set of chambers that will remain nameless. The overwhelming legal nature of the clientele, all pinstripe and white collar, brief and client was echoed through the film posters of long-forgotten masterpieces of the British cinema, such as Brothers In Law with Richard Attenborough, Terry-Thomas and Ian Carmichael, Trial And Error with Peter Sellers and Richard Attenborough again and A Pair Of Briefs with James Robertson Justice, Brenda de Banzie and Michael Craig.
In fact, there was a deeply agreeable, old-fashioned, sort of Soho-ish feel to the place. It is timeless and tiny. There's room for 20 or so people to eat and another 20 or so to drink. The floor is unvarnished wood. The tables and chairs are dark-chocolate brown and have a well-used patina. There are mirrors and plaster and beams. In its haphazard warmth, it is as perfectly designed for a quiet, civilised, solitary lunch with just a newspaper for company. The JD Wetherspoon up the road is best left to the roaring masses.
You may well be wondering why on earth I am reviewing the Seven Stars.
I am wondering, too, to be honest, except to say that I enjoyed decent food and decent drink in decent surroundings, and I left feeling the happier for it. Isn't that enough in life?
· Open Mon-Fri, 11am-9.30pm (closed bank holidays). Cash only. Wheelchair access (no wheelchair WC).
