The Riverside (Bar)

As any typical Special Agent working week goes, yours has been a real humdinger. Being forced to hurry back to Mi6 headquarters from [classifed material] this morning, due to unforeseen complications during a dangerous 48-hour [classifed material], has left you tired and confused. That, and the nice surprise someone has left you: a desk piled high with [classifed material]. Your weariness is developing into full blown amnesia. You don’t remember what day it is. And not in a crucial birthday or “Your dinner is in the dog seeing as you forgot our anniversary,” type way either. You just simply don’t know what day it is. Perhaps it’s a Friday? You’re certainly displaying that T.F.I.Friday feeling.

Sustenance and socialising are what you need. You conference-call some associates and propose a meeting. Disguising the real reason of a splitting headache, you tell them a crowded city bar would be far too unsafe. Your ‘friends’ are suspiciously quick to suggest a rendezvous in the vacinity of your building. Something must be up, everybody knows that Vauxhall, much like its car manufacturing namesake, is a vacuum free from vitality.

As you cautiously approach Riverside you become aware that Young’s, overlords to most antiquated public houses, are the proprietors. This doesn’t look good. Surely, your days are numbered…

Suddenly, you’re hit by an unexpectedly barrage of 'reasons to love Riverside’. Before you know it – BAM - you’re splayed out on the plush padded garden furniture, looking up into the giant umbrellas, lying in a pool of your own satifaction. You surrender to the faultless service standards; you capitulate to Ra, the river-side sun God glowing vibrantly around you; you’re tickled by the variety of themed monthly events on offer and the promise of live jazz every Sunday; you’re altogether overwhelmed by a perculiar sense of 'Putney' misplacement.

Struggling free from your catatonia you stumble inside into a space large enough to accommodate the egos of both David Hasslehoff and Michael Jackson. It’s a distinctly-autumnal and palatial interior, reminiscent of the [classifed material] you once did a job on. ‘Zones’ have been constructed to match your moods and you find it too difficult to make a decision. You head for the inconspicuous toilets in order to splash water on your befuddled face. There, you encounter electric hand dryers seemingly propelled by Boeing 747 engines. Now, you’re back in the game.

Downstairs you clock a couple of food options for the week: a guaranteed 40-minute lunchtime express menu that gets you back to your desk before your boss; an expansive Sunday menu that allows you to ‘carve your own’ sage chicken, Gloucester pork or Chateaubriand with all the trimmings.

Being neither Sunday nor lunchtime your job is a lot harder. You’re faced with brunches, sandwiches, salads, terrines, antipasto, tapas, foccacia pizzas, line-caught fish, char grilled meats and chocolate puddings so professional they’re made completely from scratch. Wow, these guys are good! Someone at Young’s has obviously been eating all their Shredded Wheat.

Then, your company arrives. You might never leave this place. Which wouldn’t be such a bad thing really.

You’re only as Young’s as you feel, so feel Young’s....read more