Nights Out: Godet, The De Beauvoir Arms, Goodbye Horses
Oops. Yet again, I’ve found myself spending my weekend in De Beauvoir.
I promise more variation next week.
Godet, 382 Essex Rd, London N1 3PF
By day: peaceful, bright, and open. Every garden of the gorgeous houses perfectly overgrown with roses and leafy foliage spilling onto your path through the wrought iron gates—grab a sniff as you swan by.
By night: sultry and alluring. Candlelight flickers in every venue; soft neutral tones—dusty brick red, creams, and beiges—create a hazy, romantic backdrop. There’s wine to drink and hearty (but refined) food to consume amongst the easy chatter of the suave crowd who frequent these streets.
I won’t take all the blame for the repetition—this was actually my date’s choice (though let’s be real, it’s not like I put up a fight).
We started the night at Godet, a wine bar on Essex Road. Big on wine, big on vinyl. As you approach the bar, you're greeted not just by the bartender, but by a DJ spinning records live—whatever’s playing is propped up right in front of the decks, so there’s no need to ask for that track ID.
The drinks list is extensive, without being overwhelming, with a thoughtful array of wines and craft beers to keep you entertained.
As usual, I asked the bartender for a recommendation.
"What are you in the mood for?"
"Something white that’s going to punch me in the face, please."
Work had been a lot this week.
I was presented with the Jacquère Domaine Dupraz… I think. Based on my frantic Googling of the photographed menu from the night before, the tasting notes seem to line up with what I remember: “Super fresh with a lively burst of minerals as it hits the palate. Very clean with restrained citrus and apple flavours,” according to Highbury Library.
I definitely recall it smelling like apples—and it had the most gorgeous hue. The way the light caught it: almost opaque, cut through by a streak of cloudy white, gave me a nostalgic flashback to some boiled sweet I must’ve had as a child. One of those odd, milky-looking ones you’d forget existed until the exact moment they’re summoned back by something like this.
Honestly, it’s harder to focus on the specifics of what I’m drinking when I’m with someone else.
And it was a date—I had to concentrate. Anything less would be rude. You understand.
My companion went for the chilled red, which was nice enough, but nowhere near as complex or scrumptious as my childhood-candy-face-smacker.
Neither of us had eaten, and the wine—combined with a long day’s work—was hitting me hard. It was time for dinner.
Now, I’ll admit it: I’m a massive pub snob. But with good reason—Suffolk is home to some absolute gems, with sprawling gardens and genuinely great food. It’s hard for city pubs to compete with that kind of countryside charm, but The De Beauvoir Arms puts in a mighty fine effort.
It was busy and alive, but not in that frantic London way where you can barely breathe and every person becomes just another blurry shape spilling your drink. (Note to self: stop going out in Central after work.) Instead, this felt more like home. Not quite the lazy, rambling warmth of a rural local—but enough of a nod to it that I felt a bit soothed, a bit more settled.
To the left of the bar, the kitchen buzzed with energy. Every table was full, with diners bathed in that amber pub glow. The air was rich with the scent of herbs, roasting meat, and something buttery. Plates—generous and well-portioned—landed briefly beneath the pass lights before being whisked off to hungry mouths. It smelled like satisfaction.
The server recommended either the chicken or the pork if I was after a proper meal. My date had his eye on the pork, so that settled it—the chicken was mine. We paired our plates with a pint of Guinness (his) and a large glass of Picpoul de Pinet (mine).
To start, we shared bread and olive oil—simple, familiar, perfect. It sent me straight back to breakfasts from my youth: the only time we were allowed to touch the fancy Spanish olive oil gifted to us by an old exchange student was when we had toast good enough to deserve it. That’s when I learned just how much of a difference good oil could make. This evening had become a string of little nostalgias.
When the mains arrived, I was immediately delighted by the portion sizes. I love you, London, but the number of public houses serving up thimble-sized plates for £20 is frankly absurd. This, thankfully, was not that.
Grilled Pork Chop, Salmoriglio-Fregola & Grape Salad
“Forget my Godet wine punching me in the face—my chicken could’ve gone 18 rounds with the sheer amount of flavour it was packing.”
By this point, a fair amount of alcohol had been consumed—and as we all know, that can make the worst taste good, and the best dissolve into a hazy blur.
Not this time.
Forget my Godet wine punching me in the face—my chicken could’ve gone 18 rounds with the sheer amount of flavour it was packing. The meat was succulent, the skin perfectly crisp, and beneath it, slices of slowly cooked fennel added just the right touch of sweetness. And the polenta! Herby, buttery, and with a texture almost like mashed potato—thick, rich, comforting. It inspired me to attempt a recreation this week (results pending).
The pork (I had a bite) was equally powerful. By the end, we were perfectly full, fattened, and utterly satisfied.
With wine in our bellies and the streets thinning out, it only made sense to drift towards Goodbye Horses once more. I know I was there last week—but we were nearby, I was on a date, and let’s be honest… it’s not on my Sexiest London Date Spots list for nothing.
We were continually lucky that night. When we arrived, the final two seats at the communal circular table—tucked in the nearest corner—were waiting for us. I ordered another white (don’t ask me which—at this point, my memory is as foggy as the wine was crisp) and we split a cheesecake: excellently savoury and spiced, served with crème fraîche and a sharp berry compote that cut through every bite.
With wine in our veins and candlelight still dancing behind our eyes, we stepped back into the quiet streets, full and flushed and exactly where we were meant to be. Maybe next weekend I’ll stray further afield—but then again, maybe not. There’s something about De Beauvoir that keeps pulling me back. And if the food, the wine, and the company keep tasting this good, who could blame me?
