Marquis of Cornwallis

On your next Thug Life tour of London you might want to hit up this pub for some street cred. According to local legend, it’s a watering hole once frequented by Reggie and Ronnie, the notorious Kray Brothers (as in Kray-​Kray, which they definitely were) who were considered the foremost perpetrators of organized crime in the East End of London during the 1950’s and 1960’s (thanks Wikipedia).
On the night of my visit, there appeared to be no psychotic killers in the crowd but it was still no less colorful. Gwen, the pub owner for the past 5 years greeted me more merrily than I was greeted at any other pub anywhere in London. Same with a local regular who arrived after me, quickly became besties with me, then hadn’t a clue who I was as I walked back by the pub waving an hour after leaving. It’s that kind of place.
I met a man here who swore up and down that he’d been to «Santa Fe, near San Jose, in California». Another extolled to me the wondrous «Fly Market» which had me baffled until five minutes into the discussion when someone behind him yelled out «he means ‘Flower Market’». The crowd is colorful and, if not drunk when you or they walk in, just wait a while.
Extra points for:
* Dart sets that are maintained by the bartender, an electronic dart scoring machine that one should only attempt to figure out after a few pints, and placement of the dart board such that any woman who plans to use the restroom had better be damned careful when emerging. Like: emerge YELLING.
* A big old friendly golden lab. Any place with a pub dog is good in my book.
* A bartender/​owner who ends her shift by taking her filled glass to the customer side of the bar while announcing «I’m gonna get drunk tonight».
* Honesty in missing mixology skills: Upon ordering a Screwdriver er, Vodka-​Orange, the bartender gave me a shot of vodka then waved an airplane-​sized bottle of orange something-​or-​other at me asking «is this okay?». I mixed it myself and it was. London bartenders just don’t do cocktails but they were willing to help me do cocktails.
The pub sits between the Bethnal Green tube station and the path you would take to get from there to Brick Lane. Imagine entering and coming upon the Kray Brothers. Now reimagine; this crowd is a whole lot nicer. Fun pub.

If you decide to go out for a pub on Bethnal Green rd, I suppose this not the worst place to pick up. But no guarantees. I mean on this are, it can get pretty wild.
This place is not the most popular local boozer and the few times I visited the place it has been fairly quiet. I live close by so go here when ever I don’t have energy but on a dress and mascara. I can guarantee that in here you won’t pomp into anyone «cool» and sometimes that, plus a pint of beer is all you need.

Well, the main memory I have of this place, is of a very strange, very odd ginger bloke who got chatting and insisted that he tell us about his life. And the story seemed to revolve around his Mum, bathing him and the difficulties this posed. I’ll say. We were a bit stumped at the time. Y’know, each to their own, and all that. Just difficult to empathise, or say, yeah yeah I know them ones, it’s like «you’re in the bath, your Mum comes in with a flannel, and you’re like…»
There’s a box of DVDs for sale on the bar. Don’t ask. No, like, don’t ask the bar staff, just buy without asking about it, ok? Pretty cheap. Bit old man, bit local, bit not that good. We probably spent longer there than we should’ve done. OK but not brilliant

I probably watched too much Men Behaving Badly when I was young & impressionable, but I’ve always been a subscriber to the idea that local, low-​key boozers should be akin to someone’s front room. Warm, welcoming and filled with lovely, cut-​price booze. The Marquis of Cornwallis brings this idea into sharp relief, as it really is like walking into someone’s front room, ie you get death ray stares from everyone in the place, the bar-​man gives you those what-​the-​fook-​are-​you-​doing-​in-​here eyes, the TV is on too loud, the music’s not what you would have chosen, and you get the general vibe that it would be a good idea to hotfoot it out of there pronto.
Maybe we were the wrong people (someone made a Maddy joke, for which I apologise here & now), it was the wrong time (erm, Friday night anyone?) and we were in the wrong place (what can I say, the door was open). Having said all of that, I’m about as likely to return there as I am to march into any house in the East End, demand Stella and start making myself comfortable.