The old dilapidated pub on one of the corners of the big intersection near our house has recently re-opened after a renovation. It dropped the word “tavern” from its name, remaining simply “The Royal”, and now markets itself as a gastro-pub. Even in our Brooklyn years, we have never lived this close to an eating establishment, so we decided to check it out.
Our expectations were reasonably low, given that the area where we live is somewhat middling. But the pub turned out to be very nice, with rather agreeable food and professional and friendly service. We anticipated a standard-issue British pub crowd, not exactly rowdy, but – how should I put it? – intent on drinking themselves into a near stupor. Instead, we got several families, a few better-than-everyday-dressed couples, and only a small portion of patrons who looked like they were there for their customary dozen of pints. The place was not crowded, and the atmosphere was rather pleasant.
There was a sign at the entrance, advising the customers of the accepted dress code, which did not include sportswear or ripped jeans. One guy walked in wearing a tracksuit – a member of the crew discreetly whispered something into his ear and the offender quickly left.
We were sufficiently impressed to decide that this could be an occasional Friday-night hangout for us.
The most important thing was that the kids stayed home in front of the TV, and Natasha and I got to spend time with just each other for the first time since a dinner in Loire Valley last October. I almost entirely forgot how much fun it is to be out on a date with a hot woman!