Coat of Arms (CLOSED)

174 Fleet St., Portsmouth, NH, 03801, United States
603-431-0407
Latitude: 43.07710, Longitude: -70.75950

no website added

  • Monday: Closed
  • Tuesday: 4:00 PM – 12:00 AM
  • Wednesday: 4:00 PM – 12:00 AM
  • Thursday: 4:00 PM – 12:00 AM
  • Friday: 11:30 AM – 1:00 AM
  • Saturday: 11:30 AM – 1:00 AM
  • Sunday: 12:00 PM – 12:00 AM
Wifi Available
Cask Beer
Indoor Smoking
Available Parking
Beer Pricing: $$
Public Transit
Proper Glassware
Outdoor Seating
Family Friendly
Selection: 3.75 | Atmosphere: 3.00 | Service: 4.00 | Food: 4.00
71.7
out of 100
Overall Beer Mapping Score
Based on 1 reviews.
Score from Google Reviews:
4.1
out of 5
View Google reviews
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truh (3)
Saturday 22nd of December 2007 10:50:16 PM
link
“A collect call for Mrs. Kumar Floyd from Mr. Floyd. Will you accept the charges,” Jim yelled in our direction at the bar as he leaned out of the red telephone box near the stairwell. We’d been here for over an hour, Jim, Kumar, John and I, having already spent the early afternoon at the Brewery, and we were slated to move on to the Blue Mermaid after this. Things at the Brewery had been quiet; we were spent from just finishing up a weekend of hiking up in the White Mountains, and instead of heading back to Boston right away, we decided to do a crawl in Portsmouth, John’s backyard.

Kumar glared over at Jim, and was about to come back with something, when Jim slung himself back in the booth, robbing him of his opportunity. John grinned and wobbled his eyes crazily at us, nodding in Jim’s direction, and said, “We ought to call up Aaron and drag him out with us to the Mermaid after this. I think he should meet Jim.” If there were two people who should definitely not meet up, it was Jim and Aaron. Plus, with John along, it would be like pouring kerosene on an already lit fire. Just keeping Kumar and Jim away from the dart boards behind us took enough energy; I didn’t need to be involved in preventing Aaron and Jim from going at each other’s throats as they would inevitably do after a few hours. Kumar could take Jim’s ribbing with a grain of salt; Aaron was born without a salt shaker.

“Yeah, I don’t think that’s a great idea,” I said, “but if we do see him, do not call him a girl again; we don’t need a replay of that whole event.” John cackled, Kumar’s eyebrows raised in questioning, and I turned to survey the offerings in front of me. There were twelve draughts on, including some John Courage, McEwan’s, and Beamish, two casks of Grail Pale Ale and Old Thumper; and an assortment of bottles that had Old Peculier and the Unibroue bombers among them, not bad. I was on my second Old Thumper, and it was going down fine, but a quick trip to the men’s was called for before my next one.

As I strode back over to the stairwell, Jim talking animatedly on his cell phone in the phone booth on my right, I noticed on the left that there was a snooker table in a non-smoking dining area, deserted at this hour. Immediately in front of me was a large mural painted on the wall of the stairway leading down to the exit. Back when this place was The Toucan restaurant, and they gave you crayons to draw on the paper tablecloths, I think the wall was painted in a tropical motif. Now it was covered by a pastiche of eclectic English characters: Sherlock Holmes, Princess Diana, the Queen Mother, Wallace and Gromit, Robert Smith, Johnny Rotten, the Spice Girls, Austin Powers, the Beatles, the baby from “The Family Guy,” and two other figures I couldn’t identify. I gave up trying to figure out who those two were when Jim’s yells from the phone booth broke my reverie. He was holding the phone out at arm’s length and bellowing at it as I rounded the corner and entered the serviceable bathroom. “What do you mean my money’s no fucking good, you godd…”

Returning from the bathroom, I saw to my relief that Jim, without Kumar, was throwing darts at the far end of the bar. Smoke sailed sloppily around the bar area, drifting in and out of the light from the sole window in that portion, creating a disturbing dichotomy of frozen, white-splashed, spotlit area dead center in the middle of the bar, while the rest of the place dozed in its dark effluvium of beer streamers, brewing mirrors and posters, and red tartan wall paper. The bar, which sat about fourteen, was just dimly lit by the television and string of Guinness lights above it, like fireflies on an inky, humid summer night. John’s order of bangers and mash had arrived and he was already half way through it by the time I was served my third pint, Old Speckled Hen.

“So, what’s his problem,” I asked nodding at Jim. One of the darts was lodged at an angle in the ceiling above the dart boards. Jim was taking a breather, guzzling on his pint. Our bartender, a lithe-to-the-point-of-it-being-a-problem woman with a red bob, was leaning against the back of the bar and staring over at Jim with arms folded, no doubt weighing whether or not he’d had enough. On the whole, the service our bartender, the future buddha, had afforded us had been top-notch – quick with the pours and the food not sitting around under a heat lamp. Plus, the fact that she was considering cutting Jim off was always a plus in my book. Regrettably, it was time to move on.

“I have no idea,” John said, draining his pint. “He was muttering something about some poker game. Anyway what do you say we head out,” John stated more than asked as he stood up and hollered over at Jim that we were going. “Besides, I had Kumar make a quick call when you were in the bathroom,” John said and Kumar began to laugh quietly. “Guess who’s meeting us at the Mermaid?”
Selection: 3.75 | Atmosphere: 3 | Service: 4 | Food: 3.75
71.7
Overall

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