The Ten Bells (a.k.a. the Jack the Ripper pub)

The reason The Ten Bells is nicknamed the "Jack the Ripper" pub, is because two of the Ripper's victims were reportedly patrons of it, and one in particular--the prostitute Mary Kelly--was last seen outside the Ten Bells early in the morning of November 9, 1888, before she was found brutally murdered. In fact, for a brief stint in then 80s, the pub was actually renamed to "The Jack the Ripper," which is kind of cheesy and I'm glad it regained its haunting original moniker.

The Ten Bells is right on the corner of Commercial and Fashion streets, and the first thing I said when I saw it was "It looks like the power is out." And it did. It was completely black inside and out, the darkest building on the street--like the light was unnaturally snuffed out right at the corner, leaving The Bells alone and shadowed.

The interior has remained largely unchanged since the 1800s. The inside is made of wood, wood everywhere. It creaks under you, and the walls are tiled. On the far north wall there's this awesome mural/painting thing called "Spitalfields in the Olden Time."

In case you can't tell, the setting here stole the show for me. I did drink some beer that night, though, so let's let's get to that. The first beer I had was called Bombardier (pronounced "bomb-ba-deer"), and it kind of made me sick. I had two pints of it and by the second one it tasted like high octane malt liquor.

After my last swags of Bombardier, I decided to try what my English pal Harry was drinking: John Smith's "bitter." It succeeded in taking the taste of Bombardier out of my mouth with its more active punch and fruity taste, but other than that it wasn't that eventful. It was "ok," but nothing more.

Unfortunately everything else The Ten Bells had on tap was typical stuff you could find in America: Heineken, Fosters, stuff like that.

One last thing to note about The Ten Bells--and the Spitalfields area in general--is the crowd. I described it to my English pals as reminding me of Berkeley: words like indie/sweaters/rock/punk, all of those things fit. The young fashion-aware group, nice and not very rowdy.


A trip downstairs to the loo solidified this vibe, as it looked like the bathroom at Gilman St., in Berkeley itself.

This was only the beginning of a pretty epic night in London. We eventually ended up in the street, arms around each other, singing and swaying at like 4:00 AM. Jack the Ripper would have sliced us to bits for having that much fun.

Greene King IPA

We got off the tube at St. Pancras in London, and made our way to the pubbiest looking pub we could find--which happened to be this packed two story place called the Princess of Wales Pub. The real highlight here was the food (more on the beer in a second). I had a traditional English dish called Toad in the Hole, which translated into American means something approximating "big fat sausages in a goofy looking bread bowl." It was fantastic pub food.

After taking a look at their beers on tap, I went with Greene King IPA (I dig IPAs). I chose poorly (the Grail Knight from Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade was echoing mentally taunting me). I was deceived by the look of it. The ale's font looked old timey, stately and distinguished. And it's brewed in St. Edmunds, Suffolk (which sounds awesomely English). I expected a nice bitey ale, tastes of English countryside, etc.

Unfortunately, it was a watery, shitty ale. It actually tasted a bit off, like maybe they're tap needed to be changed--like a dirty beer diaper.

Well, every ale can't be awesome. I'm interested to try this one again to give it a fair chance, but until then I'd advise steering clear of Greene King IPA. But try some Toad in the Hole (anyone else reminded of Mr. Toad's Wild Ride when you hear that?).

OId Hookey

The Eagle and the Child is a pub in Oxford where apparently both J.R.R. Tolkien himself and C.S. Lewis used to hang out back in the day, which is as good a reason as any for me to drop in and have a drink. It's an old, old place, established in 1650, and is known unofficially as The Bird and the Baby.

Quick note though: for a place with such strong literary connections, one of the signs on the wall commits a funny grammatical sin--that of the unnecessary quotation mark (pictured below).



So from those quotations we're to believe that some orders are special, and don't take place at the bar. Maybe in the back, where there's dark dealings that go on?

We had some Old Hookey, a great beer in my opinion. It reminded me of Fat Tire: fruity, but with that almost dirty body taste to it just like Fat Tire. Definitely try it if you have a chance.

Tetley's Beer

Oxford, England, is sort of like Cambridge: an English college town of cobblestone, people on bikes everywhere, prominent courtyards, and the smell of (English) pies, coffee, beer and literature. But then there's this kind of odd and invasive posh contingent in Oxford. Women stomp passed in fancy clothes on cell phones, faffing about look irritated and rich. I was wearing aviator shades around town, which are like a big bright "I'm American" flag charged with LED lights. I was pleased to do this.

Anyway, down Turl Road, we found a tiny bar aptly titled "Turl Bar." It was at a dead end in a nook that resembled Knockturn Alley from the Harry Potter films: a place where wizards go to stock up on dark tools for dark things.

We went in and I orded a pint of Tetley's, one of only a few beers on tap at Turl Bar. The bartender served it up in a glass pint that said "Tetley's" across the side; it's apparently an English custom to be served beer in an eponymous glass, which was a nice touch.

Tetley's, as it were, is immediately comparable to Guinness: a smooth, almost creamy beer but with a signature bitter bite right at the end. I enjoyed it, as I like beer that has a bit of a kick, but I wasn't bowled over. Incidentally, I'm not a huge fan of Guinness, either, so use that as a measuring stick if you're thinking of picking up a pint.

Hello England

Greetings,
Welcome most cordially to Beer Swagger, a blog about all things beer, brew, lager, ale, hops, malt--that rich and delightful pourage that drove Ben Franklin to famously say "Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy."

This first burst of posts will be written from jolly ole England, where I am staying through Monday October 19, 2009. I'll be touring various pubs in and around London, and drinking beer like a champ. Why? Because it's a good idea and someone should do it.

Disclaimer: I should probably point out now that I'm not some frou frou beer geek. My favorite beers back at home are Fosters, Hefeweizen, IPAs, etc. I like rich delicious beers, ales and lagers, but I'm not a bona fied connoisseur by any stretch. I couldn't pontificate about brewing processes, or complain about the amount of hops or what have you. I've never used words like "biscuity" to describe the taste of beer. I'm what mosts guys are: just another guy who loves beer and probably would like to know more, especially about the enticing tapestry of English and European beers on tap at a good English pub while visiting.

So, gor blimey--let's drink some English beer and get pissed.