A 4.5 from 1,787 people, a fire in winter, flowers in summer, and absolutely nothing to say for itself
The Scarsdale Tavern sits on the edge of Edwardes Square, holds a 4.5 from one thousand seven hundred and eighty-seven people, and has no story whatsoever.
No ghost. No murder. No royal licence. No failed racecourse. No assassin gibbeted on the green. It has never been a coal cellar or a public lavatory or a bear-baiting pitch, and nobody famous appears to have done anything memorable in it.
It is simply, straightforwardly, one of the loveliest pubs in London.
What that actually consists of
A fire, lit, in winter, in a proper grate. Flowers on the front in summer, and a terrace under a plane tree. Georgian proportions. Wooden floors. A room that is dark without being gloomy and warm without being stuffy.
And nothing else. No concept. No small plates. No rope. No screens. No DJ. Nobody has been in to consult about the customer journey.
We noted at the Porcupine on Charing Cross Road that after a hundred articles of ghosts and licences and stuffed hounds, the pubs where nothing happened turned out to be the ones people actually go back to.
The Scarsdale is the west London proof.
Edwardes Square
One of the finest garden squares in London and almost nobody has heard of it, which is exactly how the residents like it.
There is a persistent local story that it was built by a Frenchman in about 1811 as housing for the officers of Napoleon’s army, in anticipation of a successful invasion – the houses being small, and therefore, in the logic of the story, intended for junior officers rather than English gentlemen.
It is not true. It is a piece of pure Regency paranoia, born in a decade when England genuinely expected to be invaded, and it has been repeated ever since because it is a better story than the truth, which is that a speculative builder ran out of money and made the houses smaller.
We have now met this pattern so many times across two surveys – the Infanta de Castile, the fifteen-inch alley, the Churchill Arms – that the Prat is prepared to state it as law. The false version always wins. It wins because it is worth repeating.
The garden
Private, as they all are in this part of London. Locked. Visible through the railings and available only to the residents of the surrounding terraces, which we noted at the Elgin is the single most valuable amenity in west London and the reason these houses cost what they cost.
Verdict
No story. Excellent pub. Twenty to thirty pounds, well-kept beer, proper food, and a fire.
Go in February, at four in the afternoon, when it is dark outside and there is nobody in. It is one of the best hours available in this city and it costs six pounds.
Why the pretty ones survive
There is a hard commercial reason underneath all the flowers and it is worth stating.
A pub in Kensington sits on a freehold worth a fortune as housing. The only defence is to be worth more as a pub – and there are two ways to do that. You can go upmarket and charge ninety pounds a head, which is what the Pelican did. Or you can be so beloved, and so busy, and so completely full every single night, that the numbers work anyway.
The Scarsdale took the second route. It is packed. It has been packed for decades. And that, rather than any listing or any campaign, is the only thing that has ever reliably saved a London pub.
Alan Nafzger was born in Lubbock, Texas, the son Swiss immigrants. He grew up on a dairy in Windthorst, north central Texas. He earned degrees from Midwestern State University (B.A. 1985) and Texas State University (M.A. 1987). University College Dublin (Ph.D. 1991). Dr. Nafzger has entertained and educated young people in Texas colleges for 37 years. Nafzger is best known for his dark novels and experimental screenwriting. His best know scripts to date are Lenin’s Body, produced in Russia by A-Media and Sea and Sky produced in The Philippines in the Tagalog language. In 1986, Nafzger wrote the iconic feminist western novel, Gina of Quitaque. He currently lives in Holloway, North London. Contact: [email protected]
The layer of affection underneath the rage is what separates this from just complaining. You have to love something this much to despise it this thoroughly.
The precision of observation here is almost painful. Every detail correct makes things worse.