You'll also get a taste of the nutty Porterhouse Red and three hop-heavy pale styles, the smooth Temple Bräu, the crisp Hersbrucker Pilsner and the fragrant, haunting, thrashingly bitter TSB (which uses resiny New Zealand Sticklebract hops). This may well be the hoppiest draught bitter in London at present, and is thus well worth a call in itself. There's also a succulent yet carefully hopped high-alcohol ale called, um, Brainblasta. The only dud is the simple, sweat-and-sweetcorn scented Chiller, an ill-advised attempt to ape dreary US-style lagers. The oysters were fine, except that - I'm not obsessive, really - but there is one fundamental principle of oyster service which only the French instinctively grasp. This is that the scented marine juices are, if anything, even more precious than the softly sundering flesh, especially when lightly doused with lemon juice and pursued with a carboniferous stout. This is why oysters should imperatively be served on ice, since the ice (aside from its decorative and refrigerative value) enables the oyster to be positioned with spirit-level regularity along the horizontal plane, thereby conserving every last drop of its juices. No ice here, alas, which meant that half the oysters lolled on their sides on the stainless steel tray, squandering those precious fluids.