If Your Last Memory Is of a Bottle of Moonshine, You Probably Drank Some
If Your Last Memory Is of a Bottle of Moonshine, You Probably Drank Some
Toffee Vodka in Somerset
We drove down a track with enough potholes in it to disable a tank. At one point, a misjudged bump scraped the bottom of the car so hard that it’s a small miracle it didn’t rip off, taking our legs with it.
We were, to put it simply, in the middle of nowhere. Or so it seemed. We were actually trundling through rural Somerset, just a few minutes from Glastonbury, home to the world famous festival. We pulled up outside a pub with an exterior more bland than a grandma’s sweater. Despite that, outside was a line of cars almost as long as the road itself.
What were they all doing here? From the outside the pub looked just about big enough for one man and half his dog, let alone a carpark full of punters. We eventually found a parking space and pushed at the door, a plastic milk carton full of water and bit of old rope acting as some kind of self-closing device.
Every little bit of shelf space had something on it. Old toys that bought back memories of my childhood, TV characters, old signs brandished with “Giant Haystacks” and “Big Daddy,” two English wrestlers from the 70s. The bar was busy pumping pints between several bits of taxidermy. Funk music blasted, drawing what seemed like everyone to the dance floor.
We sat down at our table. The waiter, who happened to be the manager, danced up to us, high-fiving another member of the staff en route, his energy leaving a wake of smiling regulars relaxed and content. It was our turn.
Rather than watch us point at something on the menu, he ploughed straight in like a true pro.
“What do you like? What are you in the mood for?”
The question stumped me. I wasn’t expecting it. I was expecting a vacant look while he looked at me until I made a decision.
He did no such thing. Like the indecisive dullard that I am I blurted out something along the lines of “I’m not sure.” He smiled. He knew I needed help and he knew he could help me. He expertly summed up exactly what I wanted even though I didn’t know myself. A starter, a main, and an utterly superb beer recommendation that was so good, I’ve forgotten what it was called.
The food arrived and needless to say it was sensational. We were in a pub, but this was anything but pub food. This was tasty, dripping with flavor, beautifully delivered food. The kind of food that makes you audibly grunt with satisfaction, muttering the words “Oh god” while you make a face that only your other half has seen you make.
After we’d eaten we thought that was that. It normally is when you eat in a pub. You go in, eat, then leave. But not in The Sheppey. The waiter came back.
“Right.” he said. “What do you want next?”
Not knowing that I wanted anything, he popped off and came back with a round of shots.
“On the house” he said, words which normally precede the shittiest of drinks. This didn’t. I downed it despite knowing nothing about what it was I was drinking.
“It’s a toffee vodka, we make it here.”
The last time I had toffee vodka I was sick in a urinal and headed home early, so I’m normally averse to such things, but this was delicious.
The place was alive with dancing, music, conversation and laughter and we were all part of what made it so fantastic. We were meant to be there, and we were made to feel like we were.
The night went on and my memory got vague. My last recollection of the evening was our waiter showing us a bottle of moonshine. I don’t know if we drank it, but as it was my last memory of the evening, I expect we did.