NIGEL IS RIGHT – IT’S TIME TO BRING BACK THE LIQUID LUNCH
Nothing is more depressing than unfurling your midday meal plonked before your laptop. It is an arbitrary break in the daily grind, as much an inescapable part of the slog as packed Tubes and neurotic colleagues. Sitting there, staring down at the latest underwhelming Pret offering, one dreams of more exciting things than twiddling your thumbs and returning to the same document. Man was born to lunch, but everywhere is eating al desko. One dreams of a pint.
One of the journalistic profession’s positive qualities is that it is one of the few jobs where it is acceptable to drink at lunchtime. Understandably, senior brain surgeons look sceptically upon juniors having a couple of midday pints. But all editors can attest to the hearty benefits – professional, and spiritual – of a liquid lunch.
The real mark of civilisation is the expense account, but there is something equally noble in making do with a cheeky pint or three with a colleague, contact or chum. Ideas flow. Deadlines are fudged. A baleful packet of Scampi Fries might be consumed, if you’re lucky. It might not be HR’s cup of tea. But it’s far better at firing the old neurons than the performative professionalism of sticking to your desk.
This practice was once more widespread. Old teachers would attest to once having had a snifter in the staff room before Year 9 French. But nowhere was the practice better established than in the City. The grand old days of million-pound deals being made after a bottle of Bolly or three have long since faded into the staid world of the modern City-slicker – a high-performing whizz more interested in his Peloton than a booze-up. Small-minded preoccupations with liabilities and efficiency made spending four hours propping up the bar seem unproductive. It is one among many miserable Americanisms inflicted upon the British Isles.
But deliverance might be at hand, with the long-awaited re-opening of the Simpson’s Tavern – a City ale and chophouse frequented by a quarter millennium’s worth of debauchees. Situated at the remarkable address of 381/2 Cornhill, the pub opened in 1757, with Charles Dickens a regular. London’s oldest chophouse, visitors could enjoy proper grub in a wood-panelled setting, safe in the knowledge that they were standing in a 265-year-old tradition of very long lunchers. Despite its popularity with one Nigel Farage, Simpson’s closed in 2022 over a rental dispute.
Now it is coming back, to be reopened next year by the team behind a nearby wine bar. Yes, it’s got a new name (Cloth Cornhill), and the chops will have to mingle with olives and parmesan, as a concession to those miserable enough to think one’s palate must progress beyond school dinners. But it shall stand out amid the sandwich bars, a living repudiation of the joylessness of the modern work lunch. With Rachel Reeves reportedly considering a hike in alcohol duty, it will be fighting an uphill battle. But she won’t be around forever. And when Reform win, four-hour lunches will be mandatory. First round is on me.
William Atkinson is assistant content editor at The Spectator
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