I want to run into the kitchen and beg the cook to tell me her secret. Maybe she’s a Black Country witch.
With my foamy moustache of stout head, I wrapped my lips around pork and ham. It was a beautiful moment.
I have to admit I did stroke a number of the velour chairs while no one was looking.
It’s really hard for Black Country pubs to improve on perfection, but serving bread and butter pudding is a noble effort.