The Art of the Pub
“The Cow was but a mere Calf, and my only regret in life is not living within walking distance from The Cow.”
If you’re wondering where I’ve been the past month, the answer is Swift Hibernian Lounge. The gravitational pull of the charming NoHo pub cannot be overstated. Every time I’ve been within a 10-block radius — before I can even consider my options for an afternoon libation — I’ve found myself ducking out of the cold and into Swift’s back room.
Swift is New York City’s finest public house. It’s an easy place to saunter in, a hard place to get yourself to leave. The pints at Swift are stellar, and the room they’re served in — wood-clad, coated in art and surreal murals — is immersive, transportive, and supremely comforting. But what keeps me coming back to Swift isn’t just the product or the room — it’s the spirit. Swift is a bar you can call on for any situation — the perfect place to meet friends, to talk with strangers, or to exist on your own. It’s convivial, celebratory, approachable, and just rowdy enough. It feels good.
In all seriousness, despite the bitter winter weather, it’s been a lovely month. For the first time in a while, I dedicated my time to experiencing rather than documenting. It was a recalibration of sorts — refocusing on the world around me and how I was noticing it, rather than how I was capturing it.
And so that meant pitchers of Labatt at The Canuck, watching the Rangers lose in historic fashion, but having a great time doing it. It meant eating spinach pie at Kafana as live Balkan music enveloped the East Village taverna. And yeah, it meant a lot of time spent sitting at the pub.
Last January felt like the driest one yet. Friends went Cali-sober for a few weeks. I was meeting them at the café for an afternoon cortado, rather than the bar for a couple of rounds. But this January was different. Decidedly wetter. Fewer friends seemed to be scaling back the boozing, and almost all of them had a different intention — resolving to get the hell off their phones. Myself included.
The pub is a sacred place built around community and togetherness — a sanctuary from screens. When I’m at the pub, time ceases to exist. My breathing slows. The worries of the outside world can, at least for a moment, be suspended. The pub is where we catch up, talk through life’s problems big and small, and connect, human-to-human, about everything, anything, or nothing at all. It’s not flashy, inventive, or particularly experiential. It’s just the pub.
I love my New York pubs — Swift, Hartley’s, Iona, amongst others — but until recently, I don’t think I fully understood why I felt so happy in them. I knew I enjoyed the buzz from two pints of nicely poured Guinness, but it always felt deeper than that. And now I’m starting to realize: pubs make me feel like myself — grounded, human, emotional, and alive.
Back in August, I got my first experience of pubs in their truest form — in the UK. I quickly found that, for as profound as my American pub experiences had been, there’s no comparison to the feeling of guzzling a few pints on a London street corner amongst blokes truly living in the moment. Pubs in the UK feel deeply woven into the rhythm of everyday life: any long workday leads to the pub, and Sunday lunch happens at the pub. I’ve been thinking a lot about that trip, and longing to go a layer deeper.
And so, in the depths of January, in the midst of this recalibration, I snuck back to London (with mom and dad) for a long weekend of basking in pubs.
London in January is gloomy, but the energy is not. You could stroll down the most deserted-looking of streets, only to be met by a booming boozer. As a visitor, the vibrance is contagious. Even on a drizzling day when the sun doesn’t shine, rest assured, the pubs will be packed.
Shortly after landing, I was diving headfirst into a pint at The Devonshire, a pub that needs no introduction. Perched in prime Soho, The Devonshire is an undeniable scene. And yet, it manages to stay approachable and come-as-you-are. On a Thursday at about 3:00 pm — the room absolutely buzzing — you can’t help but wonder what these people do for work.
Many things make The Devonshire a good pub. There’s rarely an open stool, but there’s always space. The bar’s impressive throughput ensures you won’t be waiting long for a pint. The room hums, but at a conversational volume. Their “sausage on a stick” is unfathomably plump — seriously, about to burst — and will run you just two quid: the ideal companion for your third or fourth beverage, to ensure you don’t get too pissed.
For all its good qualities, only one thing makes The Devonshire a great pub: how nice it feels to be there.
At the end of the day, it’s the only thing that matters. The art form — the art of the pub — is rooted in making people feel comfortable, welcomed, and at peace — free to drop their guard and be themselves. There’s no scientific formula. Good product — snacks, beverages, or both — helps cultivate the spirit, but doesn’t do it all. It’s decidedly intangible. And that’s why it’s an art form I’ve found myself so captivated by. I’m a lighter, more easy-going version of myself at The Devonshire.
Following that logic, the pub that makes me feel the best, the greatest pub, is The Plimsoll in Finsbury Park.
The Plimsoll sits on a triangular corner of a quiet, residential street flanked by parked cars and humble flats. No matter how grim the London skies, there always seems to be a ray of sunshine ceremoniously illuminating The Plimsoll’s facade.
The recipe for success at The Plimsoll is quite different from The Devonshire. Less of a scene, more of a neighborhood fixture. Fewer lads with shoulder bags fresh off a day in the office, more freelancers, well, freelancing. It’s a bit grittier at The Plimsoll, and it’s not a place shy about its quirks. The art is bizarre, and the bathroom will probably be out of paper towels. But fresh flowers in nice vases sit on mantles, and a dialed sound system bumps at the perfect volume. The Plimsoll is well-considered, but not overworked. It’s the contrast of dingy and thoughtful that makes it feel so wonderful, so personal.
Over the course of an hour at The Plimsoll, you’ll see people stroll in and be gregariously embraced by their friends, truly delighted to see each other. New parents park their strollers and find refuge in a cold pint. Youthful North Londoners on the outside of the textured glass windows tap the ashes of their cigs into seashells placed on the worn wooden ledge. A group of older ladies celebrates a birthday with sticky toffee pudding adorned with a single candle.
Life unfolds at The Plimsoll, and to bear witness is a beautiful thing.
Soho has the scene. Finsbury Park has the sleeper. Notting Hill has The Cow.
The Cow is a short walk off the main Portobello Road drag, towards the train tracks. Some pubs make you feel at home, others push you a bit outside your comfort zone. The Cow is the latter — a rowdy bohemian saloon. It’s a place that makes no sense, but all the sense in the world.
The interior is charmingly chaotic. Menu specials are written on chalkboards all over the walls (and the ceiling!). Cheeky posters and mismatched furniture fill the room — easy to miss compared to the enormous, psychedelic fever-dream mural of langoustines wearing top hats riding fish through the hills that adorns the main wall. The Cow is kooky, there’s no other way to describe it. The pub’s motto is emblazoned somewhere among the madness: “Eat Heartily and Give the House a Good Name.”
Sat at a communal five-top with a crew of locals straight out of central casting, I snacked on a pint of prawns with a smear of aioli and a lemon wedge, before being encouraged to indulge in a hearty bowl of fish stew with a smattering of sriracha mayo. I was not led down a bad path.
Oysters sat glistening on ice at the bar. Patti Smith played loud, occasionally turned up to a blare just before the chorus — igniting the crowd to get up and have a dance.
Despite its pedigree — a historic building with over two decades of steady ownership and daily raucous celebration — The Cow maintains an unpretentious, genuinely silly energy. You’re just as welcome to stop in for a single pint as you are to settle in for the 100-quid seafood platter. That democracy of experience, that willingness to meet you wherever you’re at — that’s what makes The Cow such a winner.
This trip solidified the deeper significance pubs have had on me. More than just places to get shithoused (although, at The Devonshire, you almost certainly will), pubs are preserving something essential about being and feeling human.
I’m curious what pub culture will look like in New York this year. There’s been plenty of chatter about the Britishification of the city, and I’m optimistic about the trajectory. I think this wave of UK influence is less about the cuisine, the design, or splitting G’s, and more about creating spaces that allow us to get back to ourselves and the reality directly in front of us.
Hartley’s has the right idea — bartenders who look you in the eye, eager not only to take your order, but to learn your name. If there’s a party of two at a four-top, they’ll swap to bar seats if a bigger group comes in. Even though the room is tight, you can stay for as long as you’d like. There’s a level of respect and community that everyone implicitly buys into. And that’s what it takes for this pub thing to really work.
We’re still missing some key pieces — in particular, the ability to hold our beverages outside and spill onto street corners when the weather allows. It’s a big miss, and one that needs sorting if we want to booze like the best of them. But the foundation is here.
The magic, really, lies in bringing people together. Conversations happen because proximity allows them. Strangers become friends because the pub demands nothing more than your presence.
Damn, feels good to be back. Thanks for being here, thanks for reading.
As the host of an annual Burns Night … I just can’t get enough of this trend. The people want British pubs. Give the people what they want!
Well put! Aside from family and friends, the pub is what I miss most about back home.