Twelve: The Cutty Sark Pub and Eating House, Greenwich


The venue: The Cutty Sark Pub and Eating House, 4-6 Ballast Quay, Greenwich, SE10 9PD

Hold on a minute. The Cutty Sark Pub and what? Right. Like that is it? See these five points? No, you don’t. You don’t see them at all. 

The Sunday dinner: Pork belly.

The price:  15.5. Pfft. 

It was Valentine’s Day this week, as I’m sure you all know. But did you know this? Tom Selleck now runs an avocado farm but, ironically, doesn’t like avocados. THEY’RE ‘GOOD’ FAT, MAGNUM, WHATEVER THAT MEANS. GROW UP. 

But enough about avocados, even though I’ve only written three sentences about them. Let’s return to the theme of love and romance. Selleck? WOULD. John Le Mesurier? WOULD. 

I mention the latter because Dad’s Army was on last night and I remembered I had a soft spot for him. And that soft spot was, and is, my vagina. I don’t mean soft as in there’s any loss of elasticity, of course – I mean it in a good way. Warm and welcoming. Like a nice cup of tea that’s only ever-so-slightly stewed. 

I’ve included the last paragraph in response to constructive criticism received about my coarse content, excessive swearing and paedophilia references. I accept inclusion of such topics doesn’t form the classic approach to food blogging and considered toning things down this week. But have evidently chosen not to.

And I get that my vagina’s appearance in the third paragraph (thankfully not in photo form – even a pencil sketch would be chilling) might be enough to put you off ever eating again. It’s just that I enjoy saying, and writing, awful things in my spare time. And on other people’s time. I really do. It amuses me and it amuses other pathetic foul-mouthed juveniles like me. I love those people. Especially if they are competent spellers. 

“To thine own self be true,” I whispered gently, after reading the feedback. And that’s because I quote Shakespeare to myself all the time. I also think and dream in Latin. 

When I write for fun, it’s not about selling an aspirational lifestyle, sucking up to brands, or trying to please all of the people. It’s not pretty, poetic, pleasant or pretentious. It’s simply about me, using alliteration as if it’s clever, when it isn’t, and it’s about me being me. I don’t have the time or patience for whimsical musings. 

I know I come across to many as unpleasant and coarse. And yet I must appear to some of you as a sexy, high-flying, inspirational, motivational business executive with a steely exterior. Away from the boardroom, others will know me as a fun, kind, friendly, thoughtful woman, as well as an anxiety-riddled, self-obsessed, aggressive docker. Some of you will view me as a role model; others will simply consider me as a stupid, attention-seeking bitch who overuses hyphens. Whatever. I’m multi-faceted. 

I know it’s not becoming, but there it is. I am who I am. Let’s face it; women don’t want to be me, and men don’t want to be with me.  

“Let Rome in Tiber melt, and the wide arch of the ranged empire fall,” I thought to myself, before sending my sister a text.


I don’t know why it took her 35 minutes to answer. I know she’s busy raising my nieces and stuff, but I haven’t got time to kill, FFS. 

Anyway, speaking of old men I fancy, Mr Jus gave me a dozen red roses and used his trusty label maker to produce the text for my Valentine’s Day card this year. 



I found the seven question marks excessive, and it is not a multiple of three, but it was a good effort. However, I believe I surpassed his attempts at creativity as we waited for the train that morning with this offering: 

He laughed and took the photo above to post, yet, weirdly enough, still didn’t propose. 

That night, we drank Prosecco over the new toilet bowl so I could take the next photo for Facebook. It would show the few people paying attention that I’d been creative twice in one day, despite Mr Jus continuing to claim that I’m not. I received twenty five likes, a heart and two laughing faces – good going by anyone’s standards. 

Later this week, we both felt a bit awkward when that Rinder bloke, off of Strictly Come Dancing, wanted to put ‘couples who conduct their relationship over social media’ into Room 101, but who’s he to judge? 

Before we crack on with the review, you’ll be relieved to learn the bathroom work is finally complete. I mean, the bath water remains tepid and the shower water is permanently set to scalding, but these are minor issues and not something of concern after spending thousands of fucking pounds. Thankfully, Mr Jus reports the soap dispenser has a great pump action. 

I worked from home on completion day, doing strategic things and other complicated captain of industry bits and pieces that many of you wouldn’t understand, so aren’t worth explaining. 

My attempts to make pretty coloured circles bounce along the screen in a PowerPoint presentation were disturbed upon hearing Mr Jus’ silly posh voice, embroiled in conversation with the Polish builder downstairs. He was moaning to him about his colleague. I felt compelled to stage a WhatsApp intervention:

In it, you’ll see how coarse and demanding I am in real life, proving again how genuine, yet truly awful, I am as a person. You may also notice that my sister responded sooner than Mr Jus did. In fact, he didn’t respond, despite me being in the same house. I could have been burning to death in the shower for all he knew or cared. 

Anyway, The Cutty Sark Pub and fucking Eating House, sits on the bank of the River Thames. Here’s the view from the window. 


The place had a pleasant enough interior, featuring wood panelling and slow service. Our wine didn’t arrive until the main course and we had to ask for four salt cellars before we were provided with one that contained salt. Mr Jus had beef at 18.5, so at those prices I expect readily available condiments. And perhaps a shoulder massage.


My meal was very good. Here it is with extra gravy, which was sorely needed. We asked for more still, but you could tell they were starting to get pissed off with us when they only filled the thimble jug to this level for Round Two, the miserable shits. 

The pork was a lot less fatty than most belly encounters I’ve had, and believe me, I’ve had a few. The parsnips, kale and carrots were delightfully cooked and I wouldn’t have kicked the roast potatoes out of bed, although it would have been nice if a couple extra could have joined the spud orgy. The more the merrier, if you ask me. Especially when your boyfriend expects joint custody. The gravy, although rationed, was, I’m pleased to report, almost a sensation. 7.8/10.

Initially I found it rather similar to Heinz Oxtail Soup, so I was a bit dubious. However, once underway, it began to taste less artificial and more like a rich, flavoursome entity. Its consistency was commendable and it really pulled together the meal’s components in a positive and effective way. 

And, what made things even better was when Mr Jus decided upon the quote he’d like to include this week. He had beef this week, but clearly not with me. 

“Rather than comment on the food this week, and because it has been Valentine’s Day, I want my quote to be this,” he began, without any prompting from me. “I really look forward to these Sunday dinners because I love my Westie.”

I thought it a very nice thing to say, and he continues to be very loving and attentive of late. I really like it. I’m sure he’ll piss me off by Tuesday, but that’s more than twenty four hours away, so I shall savour these moments in the same way I savoured today’s gravy. 

Final score: 23/33

In other news, Rob and Lucy Flinter, whoever they are, are invited to this wedding. 

Shamin and Karl think they live at our address. They don’t. The postcard below arrived yesterday. Congratulations, Shamin and Karl. I suggested to Mr Jus that we impersonate Rob and Lucy and just rock up in Dublin. He thinks we should find them instead. The website they’ve created rejected his email, and we’re not prepared to do additional research, quite frankly. I thought you might be able to help. Do you know Rob and Lucy? Or Shamin and Karl? Did you even read this far? 

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6 thoughts on “Twelve: The Cutty Sark Pub and Eating House, Greenwich

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