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Google Maps reviews for The Snake & Wheel;
4.6 of 5 stars
People say this pub, relatively new to the Soho area, offers a great selection of well-kept beers, including real ales and Guinness, and a good selection of whiskies and a well-curated wine list. The bar food is tasty and the desserts are particularly nice. People also highlight the welcoming atmosphere, the interesting decor, and the friendly, knowledgeable staff, although some reviews mention issues with the barman known as Crowley.
5 of 5 stars - 3 days ago
The Snake & Wheel is a pub for everyone, the way a pub should be. Great staff and drinks. Even though I live 7 miles away, it feels like my local. But I think this pub must have a ghost! I was there yesterday, Friday night, done up to the nines, had my new satin Jimmy Choo bag on the bar, someone spilled red wine. I saw my bag MOVE. It moved a good foot with no one touching it. Good thing because it would have been ruined else, but it gave me CHILLS!
Response from staff: Thank you for your kind words. Best thing for the chills is a hot toddy or a mustard plaster. Ginger tea with honey and lemon works a treat as well.
Response from other staff: The ginger tea works best if you pitch it out the window when no one’s looking and fill the cup up with whisky.
4 of 5 stars - 5 days ago
A favourite in Soho. Not a regular but I drop in with others. Commands a nice corner, good light, fascinating decor, well-trained staff but I wish the man with the sunglasses would take them off, I never know what he’s looking at. I think the pub may be haunted, though. I dropped a glass tonight and it broke, thought I dropped it on my girlfriend’s foot but missed, heard it break, but then couldn’t find the broken glass at all. Just disappeared! Never heard that ghosts pick up things but I don’t know how else to explain it. Barman with the sunglasses just shrugged. Still a good pub though but feels a little creepy now.
Response from staff: Thanks for dropping in. I wear my sunglasses so no one can tell when I get bored and take a nap. Don’t fret yourself about the broken glass. Eric and his brother do cleanup and if you blink you’ll miss seeing them, they’re that fast.
“Still think you should have left the broken glass alone,” Crowley remarked to Aziraphale.
They were in the Bentley, returning from a picnic on Hampstead Heath on a lovely Sunday. Aziraphale turned from his window to frown at Crowley. “The young lady was wearing those skimpy little sandals! She might have cut her foot!”
“Joshua said no more non-emergency miracles.”
“He said nothing of the kind! He just… suggested we not use miracles in mundane situations. That young woman slashing her foot would have caused a major tizzy. It was the right thing to do.” Aziraphale tutted. “You’re just upset that I warned you against using a miracle to clean the pigeon droppings off the Bentley this morning.”
“Pigeon shit on the Bentley is an emergency.”
“It most certainly is not!”
“The Bentley disagrees. Don’t you, sweetheart?” cooed Crowley to the car.
Aziraphale pouted. “There are times when I think you love this car more than me.”
Crowley glanced at the angel, a smile quirking one side of his mouth. He took his left hand off the gearshift and took Aziraphale’s right, lifting it up to drop a kiss on the knuckles. “Not true, angel. I absolutely love you just as much as the car.”
“Hmmpf,” was his only reply.
Crowley caressed the back of Aziraphale’s hand gently with his thumb, and felt the angel squeeze his hand in return, saw his lips turn up in a smile.
They had had a delightful afternoon, sitting on a blanket (tartan, of course) on the Heath, eating cheese and bread and cake and drinking white wine, both barefoot in the summer sun. Their chosen spot had been secluded enough to allow for the expression of a good bit of affection, and Crowley still felt, throughout his corporation, the warm glow thus engendered.
Slowing the Bentley to turn required his left hand to downshift, and he released Aziraphale’s hand regretfully. The angel’s hand then dropped onto Crowley’s thigh, and his fingers began absently to trace patterns on the fabric of Crowley’s trousers while he gazed out the window.
Crowley’s hand was suddenly unsteady on the Bentley’s wheel, and the car wobbled, then stabilized, communicating to her driver that she was in command now, thank you very much, no need to concern yourself. For which the demon was grateful, since Aziraphale was now lightly massaging his left thigh and knee, still looking thoughtfully out the window, and humming something that Crowley couldn’t immediately identify.
Take us home, Crowley silently bade the Bentley, and reached for Aziraphale. The Bentley slowed just a bit, and her radio began to play Liszt, Liebenstraum No. 3, the car having unerringly taken her cue from Aziraphale. She may have preferred Queen, but her musical knowledge was quite extensive.
Fifteen minutes later, the Bentley — still undamaged, not a scratch on it — parked in her usual spot on Whickber Street. Crowley sighed deeply into Aziraphale’s shoulder and carefully unwound himself from his angel. Aziraphale gave him that transcendent smile, the one that liquefied the demon’s knees, then settled back into his seat, re-tied his bow tie, and straightened his waistcoat.
He looked at Crowley, who gazed back hazily. “Perhaps we should paint the Bentley!”
The demon blinked, trying to gather his scattered senses. “Whuzzat?”
“What we were discussing over our picnic lunch. How to further advertise the pub. We could paint the Bentley with our logo!”
Crowley’s senses regrouped abruptly. “We could not. You have lost your mind, angel. Bad enough that the Bentley likes to turn yellow when you drive it. Absolutely no to even the slightest touch of paint.”
“Perhaps a wrapping….”
“No.”
“Door magnets?”
“NO.”
“Bumper stick… oh, never mind.” Aziraphale huffed and opened his door. “We could buy another car. Perhaps a Mini Cooper, I have always loved those, ever since I saw that movie about the job in Italy.”
“'The Italian Job,'” Crowley corrected with a groan.
“Exactly. We’ll get one of those, and we can paint it however we like. Then Barachiel can drive it, he has rather a long trip every day by bus.”
“Barachiel runs into things whilst walking down the street, do you really want him driving?”
“Oh, good point. Well, perhaps the Erics then. Muriel can teach them to drive in her car.” Aziraphale climbed out of the Bentley.
Crowley thought about Eric or his duplicate Rick driving in London, then shrugged and got out of the car himself. “Long as you miracle the car. Eric panics easy, you know.”
Aziraphale was no longer paying attention, staring now across the street at the front of The Snake & Wheel. “What on earth are they doing?”
Crowley followed his gaze. There were four people standing still on the pavement in front of the pub. One, a large dark-haired woman, was holding a camcorder, pointing it at another woman, holding a microphone, while a third person — this one a man — was directing pedestrian traffic around the first two. The fourth was another woman, and she stood by with her arms folded, watching the other two women. The woman holding the microphone was talking animatedly, gesturing from time to time behind her at the facade of the closed pub.
Crowley scanned the street, seeing no marked vehicles indicating the presence of a news crew. There was a van parked nearby, but it was painted a flat black.
Aziraphale put his hands on his hips. “They’re making a film of our pub!” He shot a perplexed look at Crowley. “I’m going to get to the bottom of this.” He set out across the street with the determined stride he had perfected whilst herding would-be customers out of his bookshop. Crowley sauntered after him, putting on his sunglasses.
It seemed that the four persons represented the crew of a London-based so-called reality programme. The woman who had stood with her arms folded, whose skin tone and accent placed her ancestral origins somewhere in the Middle East, said they were bringing back the programme called Most Haunted, which had not been produced since 2019, and she was to be the director. This was a new crew with a new host. The host’s name was Alexandra Bellham (“Call me Alex”) and she was youngish and lithe and had brown hair streaked with blonde.
“I don’t understand,” Aziraphale protested. “Why are you filming here? This is our pub,” he said, belatedly gesturing to Crowley to bring him into the conversation. Crowley had been happy to stand back and practice his lurking and his vaguely menacing look, but with this he gave the members of the crew a reluctant nod.
“Oh, you’re the proprietor?” said the director, whose name was Reem Haddad. “You’re Mr. Fell?”
“Indeed I am, and this is Anthony Crowley, my partner.”
“We very much would like to speak to you about the ghost,” enthused Alex Bellham.
“Ghost? What ghost?” Aziraphale said, while Crowley groaned inwardly. He had read the recent Google reviews of the pub, had responded to them, and had heard some talk around the bar in the subsequent days. The notion of a ghost had apparently caught the imagination of some of their regulars, and no doubt the rumours had spread.
“We’ve received reports of a ghost in your pub. Evidently it’s a protective spirit. I have documentation,” said Reem Haddad, reaching for a briefcase sitting on the pavement. She produced a file. “Items in the pub have been observed moving by themselves, broken glass disappearing, someone sneaking a smoke in the loo and the cigarette vanished, one bloke tried to throw a punch and found himself halfway across the room. That last one’s concerning, that the ghost actually manipulated a living person. Very unusual.”
Aziraphale accepted the file, looking at Crowley. “Ah. I see. I think someone’s been having you on, Ms. Haddad. This is a pub, after all. We do cut patrons off when they’ve had too much, of course, but people do get tipsy and they do misunderstand the things they think they see. If you believe half of what people tell you, every pub in London would….”
“Well, yes. But that’s why we’re here, to find out if there’s anything to it! We will conduct interviews, and set up our cameras, and we have instruments that will….”
“You will most certainly do nothing of the sort. Our patrons are entitled to their privacy.”
“It will be wonderful publicity for you! The public loves this sort of thing, they will….”
“I’m very sorry, It’s out of the question. Absolutely not. Good day to you,” Aziraphale said firmly, frowning. He caught Crowley’s wrist, and Crowley saluted the group with a finger to his brow as he was led away.
“She might be right, you know,” he told Aziraphale as they entered Aziraphale’s bookshop, the angel still huffing to himself in annoyance. “It could be great for business. Humans eat up all that ghost rubbish. They’ll flock in, hoping to see something supernatural.” Crowley grinned, making air quotes.
“I hardly think we want them looking for the supernatural in our pub,” Aziraphale shot back with a sharp look. “Bit too on the nose, don’t you think?”
“You did want us to find new ways to advertise!” Crowley followed Aziraphale to the back room, where the angel proceeded to make tea, his long-practiced response when he felt ruffled. Crowley leaned in the doorway. “We could let them come in with their instruments when the pub is closed, look for psychic energy or whatever bollocks they look for. Maybe they’d even find something.” He pulled off his sunglasses, waggled his eyebrows at Aziraphale. “A nice cold spot or an odd shadow. Easy. Get them excited, let them do their programme, and we reap the benefits.”
“And if they find something we don’t want them to find?” the angel asked, with an edge in his voice. “Are you so sure their instruments won’t pick up traces of the ethereal or the occult?”
“With both of us there to make sure they don’t?” Crowley watched Aziraphale pour two cups of tea, accepted his own and took a sip before surreptitiously miracling the beverage to whisky and taking a larger swallow.
“I don’t like it,” Aziraphale complained. He took a sip of his own tea, frowning. But then he looked Crowley in the eyes, and the frown gradually eased and he began to smile. “But if you think it’s a good idea, dearest, I’ll consider it.” He kissed Crowley, then ran his tongue over his lips and tutted. “Oh, you are a naughty demon. Whisky in the tea again!”