A proper English pint

While in Milton Keynes I met with my colleague, Richard, with whom I’d spent several car-sick days last August.

On the way to the office, I chatted with the cab driver. He told me he was from Somalia, but that he had also worked in the Netherlands, Belgium, and Germany. He spoke English, German, and Dutch in addition to his native language. He’d been in England for 9 years and said this was his home now.

I told Richard about my experience the day before, and said I wanted to find a “proper” English pint. My boss over here, who is from England, had previously told me only to drink beer that required muscle to pour. That is, you should drink the local beer that is dispensed from the keg by pumping the tap at the bar to create the pressure. There is even a society dedicated to preserving "real ale".

Richard suggested we go to a pub called the Crown, in Stony Stratford – technically part of Milton Keynes, but there long before the new development. We tried one of the local India Pale Ales – good but not good enough to remember the name.

We left the Crown and walked for a bit, passing The Cock pub and then The Bull pub. Richard said these pubs are the origin of the term “cock and bull story”. I was a bit skeptical, but a quick check on Wikipedia confirmed it.

We then stopped in a pub called the Plough and ordered pints of something called “Well’s Bombardier” – a very tasty local English ale. They were showing Champions’ League (soccer) games on television, and the pub was filling with up with fans -- mostly from the Celtic club who were playing AC Milan. We wanted to stay and watch, but after two pints we needed to eat some dinner or we wouldn't be standing long enough to watch soccer.

Richard had chosen an excellent Indian restaurant housed in an old monastery building. He'd told me before how Indian food is hugely popular in England. He said nowadays the traditional Sunday dinner in England is to go out and eat Indian food. This isn’t something new – he said it's been that way as long as he can remember.

We drove back to the hotel, my impression of the area changed. I was thinking about this juxtaposition of old and new: Stony Stratford and Milton Keynes, English ale and Indian food, Somalian cab drivers and long-time residents.

And I figured out why I had gotten carsick before. Every time we approached one of the ever-present roundabouts, my body was expecting to go counter-clockwise then was disoriented when we suddenly went the opposite direction.