18 September | Fish & Chips

After walking around Upper Street in Islington (our High Street or main drag) for about 45 minutes, I got up the nerve to go into a pub. It was two in the afternoon and I was starving, and I had made up my mind that I was going to find fish and chips and not keep resorting to the little takeaway places I had been getting sandwiches from. I wanted a hot meal and a cold beer. I would even take a lukewarm beer at this point. But the problem was, I had too many choices! There about 2 pubs on every block here. I finally decided on The Bull, a corner pub with couches, floor lamps, mismatched furniture, no tv, and a clientele that wasn’t all old men smoking cigarettes. There was a sign on the wall that read, “Did you know? Sir Walter Raleigh once lived on this very site.” There are plaques like this all over London on everything, documenting the city’s thousands of years of history. I love it.

Anyways, I ordered and paid at the bar, and then confronted the main source of my nervousness: to tip or not to tip? I had no idea! It was a pub (no tip?), but I was getting food (tip?), but I paid at the bar and there were no waiters (no tip?), but I sat at a table and the bartender brought my food out to me (tip?). See, I waited tables for years, so the thought of not tipping at all seems horrifyingly uncomfortable to me. I felt awful—my emotions were way out of proportion with the situation. Meanwhile, the bartender poured my Red Stripe and didn’t seem to have any clue that I was on the verge of an indecisive nervous breakdown.

While I sat at a sunny table in the window and waited for my food, I decided that I would just ask him what the deal is with tipping here so I could get over it and concentrate on my beer. Which I did, and he explained that no, he did not expect a tip. He said, “I know in America you have to tip for everything, don’t you? Well it’s not like that here—you can tip if someone goes way above and beyond, but not for just pouring you a pint. Don’t worry, I wasn’t expecting a tip.” I left a pound on the table anyways.

So, the fish and chips! For some reason, I had expected something like fish sticks, but it was actually a whole fillet, breaded and fried, but with the skin on (which was a little strange). It came with mashed green peas and steak fries. Everything seemed to need salt, but there wasn’t any at the table, so I put malt vinegar on everything instead. Along with ketchup and Dijon mustard, there also was a mysterious-looking brown sauce, creatively named Brown Sauce, in an A-1 shaped bottle. I left that alone for the time being. The meal definitely hit the spot and I left full and a little buzzed (yeah, I am a lightweight). I will probably head back to The Bull again—it reminded me of the Library Coffeeshop in Long Beach, just minus the books and gay guys on first dates.

Being here alone is quite strange. I don’t usually go out to lunch at pubs by myself. But I am finding that I have a lot of free time on my hands, and I can only visit H&M so many times in a week. I do feel like I am missing out on London nightlife, but I am not going to go out pub-hopping by myself. Anyone want to come visit??