The horror of gastropubs

Last week saw the publication of the 14th annual Estrella Damm Top 50 Gastropubs of Great Britain, a list consumed by middle-class foodies as eagerly as a £27 fish finger sandwich served on a piece of slate, washed down by a non-alcoholic cocktail in a jam jar. Couples scroll through former drinking holes transformed into Michelin-starred restaurants with ‘wacky’ names such as the Unruly Pig and the Scran and Scallie, noting the ones they have been to and others to put on a gastronomic bucket list – the bucket probably being what their sweet potato fries are served in.

It’s a far cry from George Orwell’s 1946 essay ‘The Moon Under Water’. In it he described his vision of the perfect pub, in which he felt food takes away rather than adds to the enjoyment – though he conceded that there may be the odd snack available, such as a liver-sausage sandwich or a plate of mussels.