Pub 213, The Fitzroy Tavern. 16th July 2013.
Good old Samuel Smiths, you know exactly what you're going to get. And that is what you get at the Fitzroy. And the efficient air-con is very nice on such a sweltering day. And the electrically-pumped Old Brewery Bitter is pleasantly chilled.
The surly barman was quite so pleasant though. The only 2 words he grumped at me were the three numbers signifying the price of my drink. No "What would you like sir?" or "Please" or a "Thank you" required. I think he saddened by how awful his tattoos had turned out.
The downstairs bar would have been welcome if it weren't for the air-con (even so I stood outside to escape the moody barman). I tried reading the lengthy and interesting history of the pub and area, but soon found it unreadable because of someone's odd decision to capitalise each and every word. How peculiar. At least it seems to play down the occasionally-told tale that this pub gave the area its name. Which I don't really think it did. Although I did say here it did. So??