Pub review
They say:
"I've never actually gone inside, but from the outside on my way to work. It looks very nice. Google has been pestering me for over six months to leave a review so here it is." --Lex Price
3/5
I say:
Set in the ground floor of a tasteful brick-built, stone-edged block of flats the Admiral's Landing overlooks an empty marina. The gas cannisters, storage containers and general detritus of living suggest the boats and their owners may return but the water lilies and weeds grow large. Swifts chirp overhead as they return to their summer nests under the stone eaves of the building while west country accents warm the autumn evening. The pub's local claim to fame must surely be the 38oz tomahawk steak on it's chalkboard. At less than £1 an ounce it's some value. A middle aged woman sends her mother home with a stern demand that she call her on arrival. Perhaps Glynnis (as we'll call her) had failed to pace herself once again on the cream sherries. Perhaps her daughter was buying her dinner and Glynnis had ordered the tomahawk steak and only eaten the chips. Perhaps the local Romeo, the Bridgwater Byron, now in his 70s but long rumoured to be Mary's (as we'll call her) real father turned up and she couldn't deal with the innuendo from the locals and the askance looks. Either way the fact that Mary then spent the next 45 minutes on a phone call after Glynnis' departure suggests her mother lives very close by or very far away. Finding myself short of fancy paper money for another drink I have to rummage through my bag for some pound coins as Bridgwater is the sort of place that treats bank cards with the same sort of suspicion and hospitality as does backward third world countries like Germany. I tot up my coins like a drunk who has decided that if he has enough for a pint then Bacchus has decreed he will drink. The god smiles and I return to the bar. The interior is heavy on the naval theme with portholes for windows, bulkhead lighting and sign saying 'no hamocking' (which may not be nautical, just frowned upon). It's faux in the way that the whole Western world is these days but they've put some effort into it at least and the effect isn't insulting. The deliberateness makes me wonder if there is an identical, off-the-shelf pub somewhere else in the country like one of those flatpack Irish bars that spew forth across the continent. A helpful nautical measure sign helps me convert leagues to miles and realise that Jules Verne went really fucking deep. I would like to come back and try the tomahwak steak on day though it brings to mind the 90's John Candy film 'The Great Outdoors'. In one scene in a rural Wisconsin restaurant he orders a 96oz steak 'The Old 96er' that has never been finished before and the spectacle of greasy consumption draws a serious crowd and even more serious meat sweats. John Candy is now dead. That isn't the way I would like to go out to be honest though they also do a carvery here on a sunday which reminds me that there are fates worse than death. All in all it's far from an awful pub with its watery setting and even more watery theme. Bridgwater, it isn't all gristle.
3/5
They say:
"I've never actually gone inside, but from the outside on my way to work. It looks very nice. Google has been pestering me for over six months to leave a review so here it is." --Lex Price
3/5
I say:
Set in the ground floor of a tasteful brick-built, stone-edged block of flats the Admiral's Landing overlooks an empty marina. The gas cannisters, storage containers and general detritus of living suggest the boats and their owners may return but the water lilies and weeds grow large. Swifts chirp overhead as they return to their summer nests under the stone eaves of the building while west country accents warm the autumn evening. The pub's local claim to fame must surely be the 38oz tomahawk steak on it's chalkboard. At less than £1 an ounce it's some value. A middle aged woman sends her mother home with a stern demand that she call her on arrival. Perhaps Glynnis (as we'll call her) had failed to pace herself once again on the cream sherries. Perhaps her daughter was buying her dinner and Glynnis had ordered the tomahawk steak and only eaten the chips. Perhaps the local Romeo, the Bridgwater Byron, now in his 70s but long rumoured to be Mary's (as we'll call her) real father turned up and she couldn't deal with the innuendo from the locals and the askance looks. Either way the fact that Mary then spent the next 45 minutes on a phone call after Glynnis' departure suggests her mother lives very close by or very far away. Finding myself short of fancy paper money for another drink I have to rummage through my bag for some pound coins as Bridgwater is the sort of place that treats bank cards with the same sort of suspicion and hospitality as does backward third world countries like Germany. I tot up my coins like a drunk who has decided that if he has enough for a pint then Bacchus has decreed he will drink. The god smiles and I return to the bar. The interior is heavy on the naval theme with portholes for windows, bulkhead lighting and sign saying 'no hamocking' (which may not be nautical, just frowned upon). It's faux in the way that the whole Western world is these days but they've put some effort into it at least and the effect isn't insulting. The deliberateness makes me wonder if there is an identical, off-the-shelf pub somewhere else in the country like one of those flatpack Irish bars that spew forth across the continent. A helpful nautical measure sign helps me convert leagues to miles and realise that Jules Verne went really fucking deep. I would like to come back and try the tomahwak steak on day though it brings to mind the 90's John Candy film 'The Great Outdoors'. In one scene in a rural Wisconsin restaurant he orders a 96oz steak 'The Old 96er' that has never been finished before and the spectacle of greasy consumption draws a serious crowd and even more serious meat sweats. John Candy is now dead. That isn't the way I would like to go out to be honest though they also do a carvery here on a sunday which reminds me that there are fates worse than death. All in all it's far from an awful pub with its watery setting and even more watery theme. Bridgwater, it isn't all gristle.
3/5
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