The Betjeman Arms

Unit 53, St Pancras International Station, Pancras Road, Kings Cross, London, NW1

The author, poet, and broadcaster, Sir John Betjeman, was clearly quite good at getting his point across and in nineteen-something-and-a-bit-more he utilised his vast talents to argue the case against the planned demolition of St Pancras station. Obviously, he won, and it’s fitting that he should be honoured with not one, but two, permanent tributes placed in the very building he helped save. Firstly, he was given the Han Solo treatment and turned into bronze - he can be found today gazing up at the marvel that is the station’s roof - and secondly, he went the way of the Kings and had a pub named after his bodily parts. How very very English, what what.

St Pancras Station is technically still on our side. True, it’s only a glorified tube journey away from pomme frites avec mayonaisse but this end is still old Blighty. The Betjeman Arms opened practically moments after the first Eurostar was sent trundling off towards France and the landlords - Geronimo Inns, owners of a sizeable chunk of Londonium - were very aware of its proximity to the French border when they created it. So with near-jingoistic vigour, they installed a venue that is so quintessentially English, not even Geoff Capes thumping through the door with Chas & Dave under one arm and a Tesco bag full of badgers under the other could make it any more English. Rabbit rabbit.
Residing quietly in one corner of the station, the view looking inward towards the business end of the station is a rail enthusiasts soggy sheets and one that can claim to be the true description of the word ‘awesome’. The outside area is somewhat of an illusion here, as it isn’t strictly outside. The open air trick is created thanks to some strategically placed umbrellas - ideal protection against flying station vermin: pigeons - leaving the entire area sky bright, yet still a no-go zone for smokers.

The smokers paradise, on the other hand, is outside - proper, proper outside - where the new terrace is drowned in sunshine, yearning to be covered with butts; yours and the cigarette’s. As of summer 2009, this terrace was only half complete due to the disagreeable construction site at the front of the station. Until that’s finished, seating is at a premium in the post-work 5-9pm slot; made no better by the table service that keeps all and sundry glued to their seats. If you’re lucky enough to procure an early table, it’s advisable to carry a cardy, as the high buildings create a chilly tunnel in the shade.

A quick explanation of the floor plan: no idea! Restrictions that are tighter-than-a-shrew’s-arse are enforced by The English Heritage and limit the amount of alterations that can be made on the property. Yet they’ve done tidy job with what they’ve got. Think abandoned grammar school soon to be redeveloped as luxury apartments, then picture pantries, parlours, high ceilings, and surly old geezers who wouldn’t think twice about giving you a good shoe-ing if you misbehaved.
Inside, everything is lofty and chocolatey: the seating, the ceilings, the bar, the desserts. If it’s not chocolate brown, you’re in the wrong pub. The bar itself is compact - mainly due to the open(ish) kitchen - and cunningly placed mirrors give off an illusionary expanse.

The dining rooms are quiet, almost murderously so, and regularly host pin-dropping competitions during the week. There is a boardroom as well, should you want to claim the corporate crown of coolest conference organiser in town by holding your appointment in a listed train station.

Now, food and wine. Pay attention here because this is where Geronimo really shine. Firstly, the wine list: although it appears to be but a mere sheet of folded paper, it is, in actual fact, a holy scripture (of sorts). Indeed, had Jesus actually turned the water into wine, this is likely to be the list he would have consulted first. It is a printed representation of the erudite stature of a Master of Wine - one John Clevely - and includes the ineffable qualities of the Wild Rock Infamous Goose Sauvignon Blanc (sadly, no English wines on there, as yet).

Secondly, the menu: a meat-lovers wish list that stays true to the home shores in almost every respect (aside from the use of Le Creuset serving pots, a subtle jibe at the French one might assume?). Big on volume, big on quality, big on presentation. Sharp, distinctive flavours that include the buttery sea bass and English asparagus as well as the posh fish and chips with gauzed-squeezed lemon and vinegar served in jugs. As mentioned above, it doesn’t cater well for vegetarians (1/12th of the options) and bumping the lunch salads up to main dinner status doesn’t really cut it for our non-flesh consuming friends. Still, they can delightfully fill themselves up on the dark chocolate and raspberry torte, which is basically a Cadbury’s Orange egg in disguise.

The clientele at The Betjeman are an eclectic mix of grazers, civilly mingling with their white collar counterparts, simultaneously keeping their enemies close and their spouses far away for as long as possible. Aside from The Skinner Arms on Judd Street, this neighbourhood is starved of tangible refreshment stops and Carluccio’s across the way certainly looks like it’s lacking a pulse.

So if you’re in the market for a traditional dimpled pint filled with the hoppy, honeyed Betjeman Ale - exclusive to Geronimo Inns - before you allez off to Paris pour une gay weekend avec Mademoiselle Smith, then The Betjeman Arms is a nice little English restaurant that’s off to a costume party dressed as a pub.

However, if, oddly, 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-entire-universe just nearby is probably more up your boulevard. You can bet Betjeman would be up in arms if you did, though.

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