The Betjeman Arms

St Pancras Station, King’s Cross.

Author John Betjeman fought against plans to demolish St Pancras back in nineteen something and something and so rightfully deserves a permanent spot in the station. First, they gave him the Han Solo treatment and turned him into a bronze statue (as seen on one of the platforms); now he’s been given the King’s treatment and had a pub named after his body parts. How English does one get?

Recently opened (early 2008) as part of Rupert and Joanna Clevely’s Geronimo Inn empire, The Betjeman Arms resides, albeit quietly, in the far corner of the newly-international St Pancras station. The view, therefore, can call itself grand.

St Pancras is still technically in England - just - so bring on the old fashioned thick pint glasses filled with real ales; and bring on the posh fish and chips with lemon squeezed through gauze, vinegar served in jugs, and sizeable dollops of mushy peas. It couldn’t be more English even if Geoff Capes came wandering in with Chas N Dave under one arm and Tara Palmer-Tomkinson under the other; rabbit rabbit, what what!

It’s refreshing to note there’s no advertising when looking around the station. Even the large umbrellas of the Betjeman’s inside-outside area are not splashed with wife-beating lager sponsorship. Their purpose, incidentally, is not to stop you getting wet because, clearly, it wont rain inside. Their job must be to stop pigeons bombing doo-doo into your Betjeman Ale.
 
Quick explanation of the layout: No. Flipping. Idea! It sort of has an abandoned-grammar-school-soon-to-be-turned-into-luxury-apartments feel about it: all high ceilings, odd corridors and frumpy old geezers that look like they wouldn’t think twice about giving you a good shoe-ing.

The outside, but not outside, area is a kaleidoscope of Habitat-cum-Blue Peter colour; which is a good thing. The colours are the loudest thing about this place. The noise levels are set to bearable, even though it is still a working train station. There is an outside-outside bar at the front of the station, but that’s mainly for the sake of smokers and, as we all know, smokers and pubs have fallen out in recent times.

Inside, everything is high and chocolate brown: the seating, the ceilings, the bar. If it’s not chocolate brown then you’re in the wrong pub. The bar itself is compact, mainly due to the open(ish) plan kitchen, and mirrors which cunningly lure you into thinking that there is an element of expanse when there’s not.

The dining rooms are odd, one of which is old styled kitchen pantry. They are also even quieter than the main bar and regularly host pin-dropping competitions during the week. There is a boardroom, as well, should you want to hold a meeting in a train station (doesn’t everyone?).

Clietele-wise, the eclectic mix of grazers mingle in a civilised manner. Which is understandable because the riff raff usually take the ferry to France (still!) to stock up on fags and 10 pence beers rather than fork out for the Eurostar, innit?

Question of the day: what’s going on with the toliets? Good luck working that out, even if you find them: they’re unisex, they’re hidden behind a Star Tek door and they have several Dyson Blades to dry your hands in addition to a toilet attendant (needed?).

Aside from The Skinner Arms on Judd Street there’s nothing much else in the neighbourhood. Carluccio’s across the way certainly looks like it’s lacking a pulse. For those that know where The Betjeman is, it’s instantly the best place in the area. One of those cliched “hidden gems”; if, by ‘gem’, you’re thinking affordable, hearty wine lists, impeccable table service and food portions so ridiculously large they look like they’re going to eat YOU (example: the zesty orange bread & butter pudding. Good for one thing: sharing!).

So, if you want the honesty of England to be the last thing you see before you allez off to Paris pour le gay weekend avec Mademoiselle Smith, then yes, The Betjeman Arms is a ruddy good place to be. But if you couldn’t give a merde about Angleterre and can’t get on that Eurostar quick enough, then the overrated longest-champagne-bar-in-the-universe posing along the platform is probably much more up your boulevard.