The Bangalore-London pub crawl- Part 1

The first question in this back to the future pub crawl is; why Bangalore and London? It is important to ask this question before everyone actually ends up on all fours, which is why I bring it up now. So while I indulge myself, do grab a pint and stay with me.

It’s simple really; they are probably the most outward looking cities in their respective parts of the world. Both Bangloreans and Londoners have cottoned onto a vital secret- that flexibility breeds success at a stupendous scale (It’s the adaptation, stupid). They are also probably the most tolerant towns in their parts of the world, despite periodic hiccups courtesy BNP voting Dagenham types and English hating Kannada activists. And whether one likes it or not, the Essex working class and Kannadiga son/daughter of the soil have a lot to be pissed off about. These are places that epitomise 21st century multiculturalism, Sufi cities that sniff, taste, blend, imbibe and absorb. They thrive on their contradictions. When Evelyn Glennie plays at the violin-shaped Chowdiah Memorial in Bangalore, she gets standing ovations. As does Trilok Gurtu at the Royal Festival Hall.

A whopping 62 % of the Bangalore population comprises migrants from other parts of India and the world. And a staggering 300 languages are spoken in London. They are also at the vanguard of their countries' economic success. Which means there's probably something to be said for all this flexibility. So, they unarguably have a lot in common (that is, except for the time of day when their boozers close their doors and the, er, small matter of traffic).

The second question is, what is a bar and what is a pub? A pub in Bangalore is a bar in London. And a pub in London, a mere bar in Bangalore.

Let me explain.

The general understanding about a pub in Bangalore is that it is a place that serves, above all, draught beer. That is, beer that comes out of a tap. That’s simple, then. Optional extras include cocktails, ear-splitting rock, stock and techno-trance, fancy names that look West with undisguised longing (e.g. Black Cadillac), geeky yuppie types, a resident arty set, great-looking women, and on the rare horrific occasion, brats playing dodgem. Contenders for the title of the first pub in Bangalore according to Yahoo Answers and past company include the Scottish Pub on St. Mark’s Road, the defunct Ramada just off MG Road, Pecos on Rest House Road, the Brigade Pub (latterly Hi-Spirits) on Brigade’s, the Pub (latterly NASA) on Church Street, and the defunct Four Aces in the even more defunct Blue Moon Complex. This brings us to the second question. Which was the first ever Bangalore pub? And which was the first ever London boozer? Suggestions for this one, which I’ll do in a later post, are welcome.

The Bangalore bar, on the other hand, serves stale UB Export and rotgut spiked Charger out of bottles, and rather delicious Indian Chinese food. Think Tomato Fry, Chilli Quail, and Pork Fried Rice. It teems with unexpectedly friendly people and genuinely interesting characters (like a private eye who offered to keep an eye on my girlfriend while I was away, gratis, on the strength of 3 shared Kingfishers). The waiters are addressed as 'Guru' or 'Boss', highly appropriate terms considering that they are so completely in charge of one's physical, mental and spiritual wellbeing. The bars can, on request, do mildly loudish film music. However, their clientele is almost entirely local (as in, from the neighbourhood) and almost strictly male. Except on New Year, when Mr. Manjunath brings along the missus and the brood and it becomes a place transformed. They have names like Naga Bar and Restaurant, or Gongura Gardens.

As one lands in Heathrow, all thirsty and nowhere to go, your friendly Sikh cabbie offers to drop you off at Glassy Junction. And that’s where everything goes pear shaped. Glassy Junction, a Victorian local in Southall that the Punjus took over in the 70s, is a pub, and the only one in the UK that accepts Indian rupees. It’s been carefully done up to look like a derelict Indian Railway Station, complete with hanging platform signs and leaking loos. It serves draught (Lal Toofan, Kingfisher… take your pick), but to confuse the heck out of you, is full of desi private eye types. The locals rule. And hardly a woman in sight. They also do mildly loudish film music. But calling the bartender 'Guru', given his likely religious leanings, may not be a great idea.

Such problems do not end here. Even classic English pubs, like the enormously fascinating Queens’s Larder off Queen Square, steeped in the bizarre history of mad Kings named George, is full of Bloomsbury office-slaves having quiet conversations, rather than yelling incomprehensible rubbish at each other over loud white noise. And these pubs do both draught and bottle. Not to mention vile- coloured alcopops. For more on the Queen's Larder, where love, loyalty, food, wine and madness meet in a magical car crash where everyone survives, watch the Madness of King George and click on this link. The recent revamp has rid it of most of it’s character, and so I wouldn't exactly recommend it unequivocally. It's still worth the one visit.

But the bars beckon. Onto Old Street, where the Shoreditch bar revolution began. Cantaloupe, the mother of all Old Street bars, does draught, bottle, cocktails, and ear splitting rock, stock etc. Also youngish yuppie types, a fascinatingly nutty and arty Hoxton set, and great looking women. Just like a Bangalore pub. And rather nice fusion food. Just like Indian Chinese in a Bangalore bar. Aaaarghhhh… I give up.

Then there’s the lager/beer dichotomy. Beer in the isles is beer, as in ale, Guinness etc. Not lager. Lager is lager. Not beer. But beer in Bangalore means lager. Geddit?

And beer gardens in Britain means dodgy trestle tables at the backside of a pub. But beer gardens in Bangalore (as in Gongura Gardens or Gong’s, as certain less-than-couth University students would have it) are real gardens dotted with bright red and white beach umbrellas.

Not that all this matters. Clink.

To wind up on a suitably postmodern note, a recent Guardian survey showed that the most ubiquitous pub name in England is ' The Red Lion'.

The only ' Red Lion' I’ve been to, in the Black Country, turned out to be another Punjabi watering hole, full of portly, be-turbanned, gold-earringed, clean shaven Sikhs ( a British specialty) shooting the breeze. They were watching India play Pakistan on a big screen. So much for a typical English pub.

It’s the adaptation, innit?