By
Rob
Having
sank seven pints in Chapeltown, we fully intended to head home. But
Lady Fortuna had other ideas. Extending her mighty hand downwards to
once again meddle in the affairs of mortal men, she lit my phone up
with a message from my cousin – it was her birthday and various
family members had, inexplicably, ended up in town dancing on the
benches at Bierkeller. On the train back into the city centre, we
figured we’d be close by anyway. Why not have one, two, or three
more pints – just for good measure?
While
sitting in the train carriage, as we trundled back towards the heart
of the city, we got chatting to a guy seated nearby. He’d just
finished his shift at the KFC in Chapeltown and was heading back to
his home in central Sheffield. After snapping a selfie with him for
no discernible reason, he asked if he could share a taxi with us. We
said he could, because we’re nice people, and because it’s
cheaper to split a fare between three than two.
As
we arrived at the main station, we headed to the taxi rank. It was at
this point that our new compatriot explained he only had a single
pound upon his person and that this was, therefore, the full amount
he was able to contribute towards the price of the taxi. Now, I was
prepared to be magnanimous. Besides, an extra pound towards our
journey, which we were making anyway, would make it 50p cheaper for both of us.
Andy,
however, was outraged.
“Are
you joking?!” He cried. “You wanna split a taxi and put one
pound in?!”
Incandescent
with rage and blue in the face with sheer disbelief, Andy proclaimed
that he’d rather pay the extra pound himself than allow some
chicken-frying-freeloader to steal a ride into town. And so we left
the poor bloke standing in the December chill as we sped off,
comfortably seated in a taxi, towards West Street.
If
there was any doubt about whether the previous venue – the
Staindrop Lodge – was a pub, then there was zero ambiguity surrounding
this next stop. After all, few pubs actively encourage punters to
climb onto the chairs and fling themselves around to the sounds of a
classic German beer hall (the Backstreet Boys, Shakira, and Anastasia
judging from the playlist).
What
more can you say? It’s a great big room full of long benches and
tables (you stand on the former, but never the latter). People drink
enormous steins filled with lager or disgusting ‘cocktails’ and
everyone is spectacularly drunk. We each had a stein of Spaten
(followed by a second of Beck’s Vier and a third of Lowenbrau). I’d
say that the lagers were a welcome change from all the ales we’d
imbibed, but by this point we’d have been happy swigging warm
scrumpy from an old shoe.
Unbelievably,
Andy was at work the next day. “This is absolutely horrendous,” and
“I can’t stress how horrific I feel” were just two of the many texts he used to describe the
experience.
Pub:
Bierkeller
(102-104 West Street, S1 4EP)
Rating:
8/10
Pint:
Spaten
Brewery:
Spaten-Franziskaner-Bräu (Munich,
Germany)
NEXT UP: Revisiting a renamed pub, at The Bloomery...
NEXT UP: Revisiting a renamed pub, at The Bloomery...