London: Ale Fellow By T.R. Reid Washington Post Foreign Service Sunday, March 5, 2000

Europe 2000 Introduction: City Hopping Berlin: Das Boom Krakow: One Hill, Many Stories London: Visit a Pub Paris: To Drive It Is to Love It Rome: Shop Like a Native

The publican pulls the pint and strikes up a conversation. "Things going bad at work, mate?" he asks sympathetically. "No, work's just fine," answers the crocodile.

"So you had a tussle with the wife, I guess," the pub owner continues. "No, things are fine at home," replies the croc. "Is it money problems?" "No, no problems."

"Well, if you've got no problems," the publican says to the crocodile, "why the long face?"

There you have the classic version of a classic form of humor, the British pub joke. Every publican I've ever met has at least one variation on the basic story, "So this xxxxx walks into a pub‚. . . " It's a good bet that every pub in Britain nourishes its own local variant, which means there are at least 70,000 different versions.

And with any luck, I'll hear them all.

Everywhere I go in Britain, I try to stop off for a pint at the local pub. For the neighborhood "public house"-the name reflects the democratic nature of the institution, established centuries ago to provide a drinking spot for working-class folks who didn't have private clubs-is cheery, comfortable and eminently British.

Whether it's the Fuggle & Firkin in Oxford or Ye Olde Fighting Cocks in St. Albans (founded by the monks at the abbey next-door some 900 years ago) or our own local, the Queen's Head & Artichoke in London's Camden Town, we know that the pub is going to provide a broad selection of ales, lagers, bitters, wines and whiskey, a pleasant chair beside the fireplace-nowadays, it's often a couch-and an easy chat with the publican.

Before we came here, we expected the pubs to be dark temples of faded glory, full of warm beer and dusty antimacassars. And they were like that, too, until about a decade ago. In the 1990s, a revolution hit the public houses as investors started buying up pubs by the thousands. Much of this investment was foreign; today, the largest owner of British pubs is the Japanese brokerage firm Nomura, followed fairly closely by an investment syndicate based in Fort Worth.

Some of this new money went to chains of new pubs, places like All Bar One or the Rat & Parrot, which are clean, predictable and boring. But a lot of the investment was used to restore beautiful old Georgian or Victorian pubs. These establishments, with their handsome mahogany tables, etched-glass ceilings and, often, open green lawns out back, were deliberately extravagant to offer a contrast to the plain homes of their clientele.

Strictly in the interest of architectural history, I have spent many hours admiring the stained glass, the Regency prints, the vaulted ceilings-and the pints of bitter-at a lovely old pub called the Audley, which happens to be right around the corner from my office, on Audley Street in London's Mayfair. The most beautiful pub of all is the marvelously rococo Crown Liquor Saloon in Belfast, which is such a gem that the historical society, the National Trust, bought it just to keep the place open.

The naming of a pub is an art form in itself. There are pubs by the hundreds bearing traditional names like the Duke of Gloucester, the King's Arms, the Horse & Hounds. I tend to be drawn to the more exotic: the Goat & Tricycle, the Ragged Cot, the Labour in Vain. Generally, there's a story-a convoluted and funny story-behind the name. But not always. When I asked Rosie, the barmaid at our local, to explain that wonderful name Queen's Head & Artichoke, she offered a four-word reply: "There's no explaining madness."

The classic British pub name is the Dog & Duck. Indeed, the standard British term for the average man-that is, England's equivalent of "Joe Six-Pack"-is "the fellow down at the Dog & Duck." And the chance to meet that fellow is the real appeal of the pub-particularly, I think, for the short-term visitor. A leisurely hour (or evening) at any local pub will give you a sense of the genuine soul of London-something you're unlikely to find in the line of tourists outside Buckingham Palace or Harrods.

So schedule one evening of your London trip for a stop-in at, say, the Dog & Duck (a friendly establishment on Bateman Street in Soho), the Red Lion (a political hangout across the street from Big Ben) or the wonderful-but noisy-Churchill Arms (on Kensington Church Street), with its insane collections of butterflies, chamber pots, Churchill memorabilia and portraits of every prime minister since 1721.

Pubs offer a bigger variety of beers, ales and stouts than most American bars. The standard measure is the pint, but you can also buy a "half," which produces an eight-ounce glass of the same beer. Contrary to U.S. conventional wisdom, the beer is not warm. But the serving temperature does vary by category. The U.S.-style golden lagers are served cold, the brown bitters and creamy black stouts only cool.

All pubs serve meals. My spouse has developed the rule that she won't eat at any establishment that advertises "traditional pub food," but I kind of like the fish and chips, the steak-and-kidney pies and the ploughman (an open cheese sandwich). While I gorge, my spouse contents herself with "crisps." That is to say, potato chips-and they come in marvelous flavors here: shrimp cocktail, Worcestershire sauce, smoked ham and mustard, etc.

And of course, every publican has a pub joke to share. Just last night at the Queen's Head, Rosie told me this one: So this bitter, haggard old woman walks into the pub with a duck on her shoulder. Orders a pint of bitter.

The publican says, "That's a right ugly dog you're stuck with." The old lady: "That's not a dog, that's a duck." The publican: "I was talking to the duck."