Can this landmark pub remain unique in a world of chains?

The Herald Scotland

5 hours ago

It's called the Star Bar because its location points to five of Glasgow's most storied southern highways: Cathcart Road, Victoria Road, Eglinton Street, Maxwell Road, and Pollokshaws Road. It's the unofficial gateway to Govanhill, Queen's Park and Shawlands with Maxwell Park and Pollokshields just off to the right as you look south.
The distinctive Star Bar building. (Image: Colin Mearns) It rarely changes hands and when it does, each new custodian chooses wisely to remain faithful to its glorious décor, an unrepentant monument to 1960s Formica cheeriness with a black and white tiled floor, red leather upholstered seats and hammered bronzed table tops sitting beneath wood-panelled walls. On crossing its threshold yesterday, you're transported back to the pubs your dad and uncles once frequented and where occasionally you'd be taken as a youth to learn how to conduct yourself in west of Scotland male company: you'll have a coke; you'll say nothing until you're asked and you'll listen and observe closely.
The only haute aesthetic are the haute pies; the haute soup and the deftly-imported haute goods of uncertain provenance. It's the home of the legendary '£4 lunch' – now edging towards £5 – consisting of three courses and featuring a robust bill of fayre that includes those pies, macaroni cheese and roast beef.
For a modest premium you can have something a little more exotic such as the breaded fish and the Ashet pie. There was always a white notice on the wall outside – in the shape of a jaunty white guitar – telling you that the kenspeckle and lately departed Glasgow musician, Ken Manners, was the house entertainment.
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Today, I'm with its new owner David Low and his brother Kenny, who'll manage the day-to-day running. They're native south siders and I too once spent several happy years not far from here, up the road in Govanhill. We're mourning the loss of Paddy Neeson's, anther legendary tavern which was reputed to serve the best pint of Guinness in the city, but which has now become an insipid style bar selling artisan tomfoolery.
'I hope you're not thinking about doing anything similar,' I tell them. 'No chance,' says David.
Owner David Low. (Image: Colin Mearns) Today, I'm on the mince and tatties with the mint peas and he's with the breaded fish. A bowl of rice pudding with a wee steeple of tinned fruit on the top sashays by.
'Apart from a lick of paint here and there, I'm changing absolutely nothing,' he says. 'Why would you? Money can't replace what's already here. This is already a busy pub, no matter what day of the week. I'd like to build a wee stage area and bring back a house band. I'd like to restore the darts team too.
'I'm very much into community pubs and I'm planning on acquiring several more. I feel as though I'm rendering a service to the community.'
Pubs like the Star Bar reside in the folk memory of generations of Glaswegians. Memories of grand social occasions and family events here get handed on. They are in the DNA of their local communities.
Older men from working class communities are prone to social isolation and the loneliness that comes from the erosion of masculinity and the sense that their language and their lifestyles – no matter how innately decent they might be – are no longer permitted in polite society. They come in here for the company, the conversation and the comfort that comes from knowing they're not being judged. These places maintain social cohesion by keeping it real, honest and affordable.
'All the customers are on first name terms,' says Kenny Low, 'and that's not a cliché. They've been coming here form many years and they look out for each other.'
'It's a really eclectic mix,' says David, 'rich man, poor, man, old woman; young woman. This area of Glasgow is becoming a destination for the hipster generation, attracted by those big apartments which are more affordable than in the west end and smart cafes selling coffee at prices that won't choke a horse.' Outside, there's also something unique in Glasgow: a busy cycle lane.
'Community pubs is a seam I want to mine,' says David. 'It's those places where people talk to each other and no-one remains a stranger for long. I've always liked this pub and other pubs of its kind.' He speaks with affection about The Tower Bar on the north side of the city which he once owned.
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So, what qualifies as a community pub, I ask. 'It's a place where you can spend some time and have a drink and food at a reasonable price,' says Kenny. 'It's a place that really belongs to the customers and their families, often stretching back generations.'
Neither of them want to appear patronising when discussing this. So, I'll say what they won't: by keeping the food at such low prices, this place can be a lifeline for some people facing profound social challenges. And by serving it in an attractive lounge area with knowledgeable staff, there's a patina of dignity and decorum and respect.
Could more pubs offer affordable lunches to help address food poverty? Could it be something that the government might encourage and support as a sustainable business model: achieving a balance between proportionate profits and assisting the community?
David Low is cautious: 'It's a difficult challenge to satisfy the interests of the council with those of the business owner and the customer as they're all trying to get as big a slice of the money pie as possible. I don't think it works in the city centre as too much goes on rent and rates. We're proving though, that it can work in outlying communities where costs are lower.'
Behind the bar, May Di Mascio is telling me that the camera makes her nervous. If so, the she's hiding it well. She's been working at the Star Bar for 14 years, while her colleague, Andrea Purdie, has devoted most of her working to this pub. If they didn't exist then you'd have to invent them. They both set the tone of this establishment: warm, welcoming but taking no nonsense.
May tells me about the older couple who come here in full cowboy gear prior to a show at Govan's Grand Ole Opry. 'Sometimes, when it's going like a fayre in here, they don't make it to the Opry and can be found swinging their lassos in here instead. This isn't unusual. People come in here en-route to concerts and events but get caught up in the atmosphere in here and don't actually make it to the gig.
She tells me that it took a few weeks to get acclimatised to the robust language and boisterous interactions of the customers. This is a city, after all, where the citizenry have taken the darkest profanities and re-imagined them with a measure of virtue and purity. Thus you can be a good c**t or a decent c**t or a clever c**t. 'Now when I suggest that they might have had enough and to get up the road, they don't need to be asked twice,' she says.
When a customer dies, the hearse will pass here and the bar will empty on to the street with their drinks and wave them on their way, as they did with her beloved sister-in-law, Giovanna, a few weeks ago.
Friends Andy O'Donnell, 73, and George Robertson, 56, in the lounge bar. (Image: Colin Mearns) Andy and George are at the Star Bar most days. 'Once you've had a meal in here,' says Andy, 'you're set up for the day.' They've seen all the other pubs disappear that once thronged this neighbourhood disappear one by one. 'The Star Bar is still here because it has always kept that community spirit and never altered its character,' says George.
They both exhort me to 'take it easy', which you can't really fail to do when you've spent some time here with May and Kenny and Andrea, fortified by a £5 lunch and the Glasgow cowboys and a line of chat that takes no prisoners but leaves the heart and soul intact.