Step through the door, and you’ve time-travelled. Not to some polished, fake “vintage” spot, but the real deal. The floor is covered in those tiny, slippery white tiles you only see in old butcher shops and public baths.
The ketchup bottles? Glass, with those metal screw tops. The plates are white, chipped at the edges, and stacked like honest work. You half expect a bloke with a flat cap to walk in and order “the usual” without even looking at the menu. Which, let’s be honest, is the only way to order here.
The Star of the Show: That Pie.
It’s not a fancy, flaky, 50-layer butter bomb. No. This is a working-class pie. A sturdy, shortcrust pastry shell that holds its shape. It’s golden, a little tough, and absolutely perfect for mopping up the green stuff.
And the filling? Seasoned minced beef. That’s it. No wine, no thyme, no truffle oil. You take a bite, and it’s a savoury, peppery, beefy hug. It’s the kind of filling that makes you wonder why we ever complicated things.
