Roy Hattersley once wrote a plangent passage about a painful aspect of the human condition: the short span of animals’ lives. The owner who commits his affections condemns himself to the pain of bereavement. This thought has come to my mind recently.
Roxy Beaujolais, that glorious ale-wife, has already been celebrated in this column. Her public house, the Seven Stars, is just behind the Law Courts and has almost acquired the status of a fifth Inn. I popped in the other day and found to my delight that it was as good as ever. Cured herring followed by rare cold roast beef: Roxy would be horrified if you described the Stars as a gastropub, but it could easily pass muster as one. As ever, she pulls an excellent pint, concentrating on Adnams and Harvey’s, superbly hoppy beers which are a vital means of rehydration during the rigours of an English summer.
We mused about the difference between the male and female palates. Roxy herself developed a taste for bitter while she was in training to become the best female licensee in the Kingdom. But she agreed with me that few of her sex share that enthusiasm. Girls who will happily drink Armagnac or malt whisky, accompanied by a good cigar — Roxy keeps a small but excellent range of Havanas — will not touch bitter. Curious.
Change and decay: the Seven Stars seems immune to both. If only the same were true of the habitués. Roxy reminded me that I first visited her in the company of Richard de Lacy, a good musician both as a performer and a connoisseur; a fine lawyer who should have been a High Court judge. He died too early: barely 60. We raised a glass to his memory.
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