A long time ago, by which I mean five or six years ago, a bearded, well-built fellow fond of Hawaiian button-up shirts manned with frequency the taps at The Earl of Essex, by which I mean he must have been a full-time employee. He may have been a manager at the time, but maybe not, because the manager may have been a short woman with curly red hair and big glasses who was also around quite often.
As a little time passed, as I left North London for three months or six months before returning again for two or three months, the bearded bloke stopped showing up, and eventually so did the curly-haired woman. It felt like a significant loss, not seeing these two familiar faces who I’m fairly certain had come to recognize us as familiar faces; it’s hard not to become a regular when this cozy, convivial, one-time brewpub with up to 20 taps is nearby. When they disappeared from The Earl, it felt like the mirage that forever, ominously, shrouds my dogged efforts to moonlight as a Londoner thickened.
And then a new staff took over, and they too became familiar, and some of them came to recognize us, and I again felt more concrete. There was the wispy blond woman of Scandic descent who was nice enough, and there was the short-haired, stark, early-thirties woman who wasn’t particularly nice and, in fact, often appeared horrified at the sheer prospect of A) seeing us, and even worse, B) speaking with us. You can imagine her aghast expression when with a group of her friends she bumped into us at Crate Brewery in Hackney Wick one sunny Sunday afternoon. (She acted as if she didn’t see us, but she definitely, clearly did.)
We left North London again, and when we came back again there was no sign of the wispy Scandic woman at The Earl of Essex or of the woman who must have been thrilled when we left. And the faces continued to come and go, come and go, as we did the same, until one occasion when The Earl staff remained largely unchanged between extended stays.
Related: In Hackney Wick, Howlings Hops Pours It Straight from the Tanks
There was the main guy, glasses, beard, affable, good-naturedly harassed, spoke in that vaguely conspiratorial manner in which only certain British people can, an unabashed craft beer enthusiast with a taste for the rare. There was a short, curly-haired guy who appeared aloof, but as time went by I noticed how often he acutely, discreetly, scanned this often-packed pub and then managed the lay of the land accordingly. And, among other mainstays, there was a tall, very friendly guy with a thin mustache and impossibly cool fashion sense that we weren’t sure was intentional or just default.
Over the past five or six years I’ve spent more time than most at The Earl of Essex, particularly over the last two years when I’ve “lived” in fits and spurts just around the corner. With friends and family I have toasted birthdays, anniversaries, and holidays at The Earl; I celebrate good beer and good company at The Earl; I revel in London and in life at The Earl. It’s a special place, a happy place that is happier than most places. For me The Earl of Essex has become the true embodiment of “my local,” and its staff, one iteration after another, has become an unknowing proxy for my enduring, hopeless Londoner delusion.
When I came back this time, I found the affable beer enthusiast with whom I so enjoyed conspiratorial beer conversation had moved on to a beer bar in South London, as he told me he would last time I saw him. The tall, friendly guy with the impeccable fashion sense—intentional or not—finally introduced himself by name the other night, perhaps because it felt necessary after speaking with us so many times. He then told me he was soon leaving The Earl to pursue his passions and get on with the next stage of life.
I wished him luck and told him I was happy for him, but sad to see him go, and after a few more pleasantries ordered an IPA from Unity Brewing Co. He told me it was out, but that he’d just tapped an IPA from Cloudwater that was just as good. I said that was fine.
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The Earl of Essex is located at 25 Danbury Street in Islington, London.
