"Drinking in a pint of stout with a tot of Old England"

Orlando Sentinel
February 12, 2006

We've all made a list at one time or another - whether on paper or in our heads - of those deeds we’d like to accomplish before the Grim Reaper comes a-knocking. With patience and persistence, I’ve managed to check a few items off my inventory, ranging from the traditional (seeing the Rockettes’ Christmas Spectacular at Radio City Music Hall) to the spiritually cleansing (quitting a lousy job at lunch).

But it wasn't until my wife and I vacationed in Europe last summer that I was able to satisfy one of my pleasure-of-the-palate goals: drinking a pint in a London pub.

The Northgate is a small street corner pub in Islington, a borough north of London. Black railings and a small patio out front give way to wood flooring, dark wood paneling and low lighting inside that give the place Old World charm. Spirited British accents mingle with laughter and flickering TV images of football (soccer, to us Yanks). It's exactly as I pictured a British pub.

I sidle up to the dark wood bar and order a Guinness draught, technically an Irish beer but who’s checking? The glass is chilled-not ice cold, but not room temperature, either. Though I'm sure it's my imagination, the hearty, dark brew with its creamy head appears to flow slower and thicker than what I'm used to. It drapes my moustache with a frothy, light-beige coating, and each gulp leaves behind a slight hint of burnt-caramel flavor.

We step out front to enjoy our drinks in full view of ancient brownstone buildings and a smattering of pedestrians. There has been a pub standing on this spot since at least the 1500s; the building is probably a few hundred years older than that. Back home across the pond, hundred-year-old buildings amaze and confound us. The locals may take for granted what they have, but I sure didn't.