The Queen Victoria City Pub
South Street, Valletta
Tel. 7933 7968
Food: 4/10
Service: 9/10
Ambience: 8/10
Value: 6.5/10
Sorry. I didn’t know her personally. So when anyone mentions Queen Victoria only two images flash before my eyes: the imposing bust of H.M. in front of the public library in Valletta and the even bigger bust that was Barbara Windsor, who, after a career of carrying on as a dumb cockney blonde in the politically incorrect ’60s and ’70s, became landlady of the Queen Vic in Eastenders.
Dirty Den and Angie Watts were more my teenage era of trash box watching, but I couldn’t figure out how to link them to the narrative – so Dame Babs, or Peggy, as she was known in the soap, will have to do, Gawd bless ’er cotton socks, which more often than not is all she had on in the hit Carry On series (franchise, millennials; franchise).
Funny, isn’t it, how in-your-face double entendre and doses of outright sexism had our parents’ generation rolling around in fits of unabashed laughter, while today our social media profiles are conditioned to condemn any jibe that may offend our pet hamster. And to think that they were the ones entrusted with teaching us right from wrong… If I’d been brought up today, I wouldn’t have been scarred by the Stone Age hilarity of the The Flintstones, you know, because of the dubious relationship between Barney and Fred; Tom and Jerry’s violence would have been shielded from me; and I won’t even get into the psychological harm caused by the urban legend surrounding Captain Pugwash and his unfortunately named crew headed by Master Mate.
Anyway, by the time Dame Babs got into Eastenders, all her clothes were very much back on and she had metamorphosised (try spelling that with a drink down you) into the matron-type figure she was always running away from in Carry On – serving dreary punters, living even drearier lives, in the dreariest possible pub. So, you can imagine my consternation (OK, OK… expletive-laden exclamation) when my partner in crime for the evening suggested trying out a relatively new establishment in Valletta called the Queen Victoria City Pub. I immediately got a bout of post-traumatic stress disorder, as childhood memories of Tom’s tail being fried in an electrical socket by Jerry suddenly came flooding back.
Happy to return for a drink or ten, but will make sure I eat elsewhere
But if first impressions were anything to go by, I was in for a pleasant surprise. This place is the antithesis of dreary. The façade is coated with a come-inside blue-grey hue adorned with flowers (fake I guess, they were too high to tell). Then there’s the luxurious wood. A mighty section of the Amazon must have been used to deck out Valletta’s Queen Vic: floors, wall panelling, bar the size of a bowling alley and bookcases with real books in them. No expense was spared by the owner, Frankie Grima, who even chose to hold his wedding reception there a few months back.
That’s not all. There’s a large enough selection of beers to keep even the most fastidious Englishman happy, with a vast array of spirits to match. And on a damp weekday night, happy is certainly what customers inside seemed to be.
It’s more Wetherspoons than English village pub, but don’t let that put you off. Clientele range from lawyers pretending to work late to the most civilised group of crash-helmet-carrying guys you’ve ever seen. The music was on, but at a level that allows people to talk. If only the couple romantically attached to their smartphones all evening had realised, they might have engaged in a conversation.
To boot, the place was full – no mean feat given its tardis-like size – so there was plenty of atmosphere. Admittedly, getting a table took a little time (presumably one can reserve), though I have waited in far worse places than a bar stocked with everything except a decent selection of wine.
Drinks are reasonably priced too, especially for the capital, and the food menu doesn’t have a bad selection. Nothing fancy, but it doesn’t pretend to be. It’s supposed to be a pub, after all. And the staff were attentive and helpful throughout. All the indications were that, despite my reservations, I had landed in the right place… that is, until the food arrived.
The cheesy bruschetta, which cost a whopping €5.20 for four baguette-style slices, were graced with the most tasteless tomatoes this side of the English Channel, while my partner-in-crime’s veggie burger lacked fertiliser or anything else that could breathe life into it. As for the bun it came in; well, that fell apart in frigidly solid chunks. Surely a soft bap isn’t too much to ask?
Then there were my spare Pork Spare Ribs, which at €9.50 for a half rack seemed good value until I discovered their previous owner must have been a midget piglet. The little sauce on them didn’t help, tasting more like the metal on the grill than anything else, no sweetness at all. As for the fries, they were cold, and the ketchup/mayo condiments were of the cheap, obscure-branded sachet kind.
The menu makes a very bold point urging customers to complain if something is not right, so I did when an after-dinner drink came with ice that was not requested. They took it away promptly but brought back exactly the same contents minus the ice – leaving me to drown in cold and watery sorrows. H.M. would not have been amused.
Conclusion: happy to return for a drink or ten; but will make sure I eat elsewhere, I’m afraid, unless they up their game in that department.