There are pubs for everyday use (your work local, your home local etc) and then there are the ones you designate as special. The Eagle is a special pub for me.
I don’t go often, but try to take family or friends for lunch when they visit London. The menu has a loose Mediterranean/Portugese theme and I nearly always get the bifana: a huge steak sandwich on a round roll, presented in the middle of a plate on its own.
Yeah, there’s no chips at The Eagle. I presume because the kitchen is open plan and wedged into the small space behind the bar, so a fryer would make the air thick with grease. That’s just a guess, I’m not a hospitality professional.
I love chips but you can get them anywhere. Their absence only makes The Eagle feel more special to me.
Here are some other arbitrary things that make The Eagle special to me:
The staircase down to the toilets is painted mint green.
Ceiling fans.
When you order coffee they bring it to you straight from the stovetop in a Bialetti (they have all different sizes, depending on how many people ordered).
They have a chilled red by the glass that’s listed only as “chilled red.” I’m sure they could give you extra information if you needed it, but - in the context of a big round steak sandwich for lunch at a pub - who needs to know more than that?
It’s in a very central part of London (Farringdon) that (to me) has a particular feeling to it. Old but not oldest. Busy but not that busiest. Central but not the centre. It’s a pleasant 35 minute commute from my flat (overground to Liverpool St, one stop on the futuristic Elizabeth Line).
There’s always at least one table of wealthy tourist food vloggers, which I am more than happy to go along with (as long as they aren’t white Australians).
My point is that there’s no one thing that makes The Eagle my favourite. It’s lot of small quirks and details that stack up and compound into something that couldn’t just be created from scratch and, on a good day, feels magical.
A nice thing about focusing on arbitrary small things is that the disgusting Big Picture remains blurry and in the background.
Another nice thought: if I’m noticing the small random details in other people and things, maybe there’s someone noticing the small details in me?
We spend so much energy fussing about what we feel like are weaknesses, it doesn’t occur that someone else might see it differently.
With that in mind, I like to think that - on the off chance someone one day comes up to me and tells me that, for example, the sun damaged skin on my forehead or the frayed hem of my trousers has made them feel known and understood in this world - I’d nod and say that I understand perfectly.
There’s actually a mint green staircase in Farringdon that’s got me feeling the exact same way.