The old London taverns and chop houses are disappearing year by year, but there are a few quaint survivals which are interesting. Take it that on some winter’s evening, we have passed through old Holywell Street, where the gas is flaring wildly over the doors, and emerge at the foot of the picturesque St. Clement Danes’ tower, in whose belfry windows are red lights, while its bells are clanging away noisily, worked by the strong arms of “the College of Bell Ringers.” We hurry on, passing through the old Bar, which once seemed like entering a fortified town, and only wanted a drawbridge; then see to the left, over a little low porch, the illuminated beacon of “The Cock,” cheerfully inviting entrance. The long bent passage, with the swing-door at the end, had an air of ineffable comfort--there was a glimpse of the cozy bar beyond. To the right hand, as the swing-door opened and shut, you saw the jovial red curtains within, the blackened mahogany boxes, the hats hung up, and the sanded floor. It seemed like a whiff of the “Old Maypole.” You understood at once the significance of Dickens’s old inns, which he seemed to revel in. How snug that corner seat near the fire--just holding two--with the stout table in front--the kettle singing close to you--from below came the sound of cheerful hissing, as the tender chops or “dinner steak” was being prepared “to follow” or not, as it might be--to be succeeded again by the peculiar “rare-bit,” the unapproachable stout, fine port, and finer whiskey!
It was a curious sensation to find refuge here after a weary day, and look round on the characteristic figures, mostly solitary, dried up, old lawyers, who have spent their day in company with deeds and papers. They would have their tumblers of old Scotch--more as a companion for their thoughts--and you could see their faces wandering placidly to the fire as if tracing some of their favourite quiddities and quillets there. Here, too, was to be found the adventurer come to seek his fortune in the great town, brooding over the buffets already met with, planning how to fend off others, yet finding a soothing comfort in the placid retirement of the old hostel.
“I may here mention,” wrote an old City solicitor named Jay, “that the ‘Cock Tavern’ in Fleet Street has been a noted resort of lawyers for more than two centuries. When I first went there, no chops or steaks were cooked, but gentlemen and tradesmen went there in the afternoon to smoke their pipes (cigars being then very little used). The landlord at that time held a high position in Whitbread’s brewery. It was at this time kept open during the night, and until the early hours of morning were far advanced it was often a difficult matter to find an unoccupied seat. The gentlemen who frequented it were members of the Temple and other Inns of Court, and used their own silver tankards bearing their crests, which were exposed to view against the wall of the bar or coffee-room; and I have still many pleasant reminiscences of oyster and other suppers furnished at this house; a man from a neighbouring fishmonger’s being specially retained to open oysters for the numerous customers, who with sharp appetites kept him fully employed.”