No Name Pub

Roast dinner: £8.50-£9.50
Avg drinks prices: Pint lager £3.80, bottle cider £4.00, half pint coke £1.60
Desserts approx £4.50

After reading up on No Name on the net, and following rave reviews by friends and acquaintances, I was greatly looking forward to sampling what promised to be an utter delight. We decided not to attempt to climb Everest - Hanover and I do not mix, ever since I dated a guy on Whichelow Place (the relationship just wasn't worth the, quite literally, uphill struggle) and whilst I am not unfit, I do like to be alive when I eat my roasts. So, a taxi it was, and up we went to the crest of the mountain, where waited a very inconspicuous looking joint. No Name is not a fancy schmancy gastro-pub; instead, it delights on being low-key and unpretentious. This is a good thing. The more 'old man'-style a pub is, the more points it racks up on my list.

However, on entering we were disappointed to see that the biggest table, the table that would have held all seven of us, had been swiped by none other than Brighton's biggest foe - the Middle Class Family. And not a big family, but just two small children no older than five, a distressed-looking mother and a father who was actually sat on another table across from the aforementioned Goliath table. Truly, truly infuriating. Plenty of smaller tables around, but would they budge so we could sit together? Would they bloody hell. So instead, we had to spread ourselves out over three smaller tables, one of which was a good three metres away from the others. This is where the nightmare began.

My friends went to order their roasts before us, so we could save their tables. It was looking good - the menu had a wide variety on offer, including some more fancy and unusual meats - I spotted venison, ostrich, wild boar and springbok. We all went for a wide range, taking advantage of the opportunity to try something new. However, once our friends got back and we headed for the bar, we realised that this was not to be. Our arrival at the bar was followed closely by the arrival of one of the barmen's friends, and so he duly ignored us (despite us getting their first by minutes) and proceeded to have a chat with his mate, who then decided to order twelve drinks, one at a time (Guinness last, natch), followed by twelve roasts, one at a time. This absolutely infuriated me, but the barman did not seem to care. We waited at the bar for a grand total of twenty-three minutes before being informed that the aforementioned customer had taken the last of the venison and springbok. Great. Non-apologetic, the barman continued to converse with his friends instead of focusing on us and did not offer any explanation as to why we had been overlooked. Instead, we reluctantly plumped for beef and sat down to wait.

This is the point at which it becomes a Tale of Two Roasts. Ten minutes after we'd finally ordered, our friends' roasts arrived. They looked delicious. Sumptuous, if small, portions of meat sat atop the potatoes, which were were slightly burned at the edges and creamy in the centre and the gravy was plentiful. The veg, served in a separate bowl, was honeyed, crisp and colourful. The sounds coming from the tables indicated that they were enjoying what they were consuming. We watched, jealousy flooding our veins, waiting on our not-as-exciting beef to arrive. In fact, we were still waiting as our friends polished off their dinners altogether and went to order dessert. We were still waiting when those desserts arrived. And we were still waiting when those desserts were polished off. In the end, it was a grand total of one hour and twelve minutes before our dinners finally arrived - and that was, quite conspicuously, after we made a request as to where they were.

It was not worth the wait. Our roasts looked nothing like the ones we'd seen previously. A limp, lacklustre slice of fatty beef swam in a congealed puddle of gravy; the potatoes had become soggy and the only veg we'd received in our separate bowl were overcooked peas, limp (suspiciously looking like frozen) carrots and mushy cabbage. It was a mess. However, we were so very hungry that we decided to tuck in; we couldn't risk having to wait another hour for our dinners to arrive. Big mistake.

The meat was cold, the gravy was thick and had a skin on it. The veg were sloppy and overdone. In comparison to the sounds of delight we'd heard earlier, the sounds I now heard were sounds of disgust. It was truly disgusting. The plate was extremely hot, which suggested that it had been sat on a hotplate for some time while the waiters did whatever with their time.

After choking it down, we noticed that different tables around us had started to send their roasts back. It was here that we realised that we should maybe have done the same - after all, I come from Hove and was a long walk from home, having paid the taxi fare to get there in the first place. We counted - fifteen roasts went back to the kitchen. We decided to speak up.

I managed to grab the waiter and told him of our woes - he was extremely apologetic and took our plates up to the kitchen. On his return, he stated that the chef was willing to offer free desserts, but they couldn't do much else as we'd eaten the roasts. Fair enough. We accepted the free desserts (except one, who couldn't face any more 'food') and plumped for white chocolate cheesecake, which was excellent - rich and creamy, with a tangy orange kick. It was a shame the rest of the meal didn't match up. We were told that the kitchen were a porter short and that a barman had not shown up - I did not accept this as a decent excuse as to why the food was so horrific. I got the vibe that here, the barpeople were more concerned with image and socialising than with decent customer service, which led me to believe that they could have had thirty staff on, and we still would have had a terrible experience because we did not wear fake glasses, or wear skinny jeans and loafers without socks, or have backcombed hair. The waiter we spoke to was the only one we'd interacted with who seemed to care, and he got the brunt of our rage - I'd like to apologise to him again, because he really was the only one who treated us with respect.

In conclusion - I don't think I'll ever be visiting No Name again - despite the gorgeous roasts I'd seen, it's just not worth the taxi fare or the risk.

3.5/10

No Name Pub, 58 Southover Street, Brighton BN2 9UF
Tel: 01273 601419
Credit/debit cards accepted