Simply 'the best homemade pub grub I have ever tasted in Sheffield'. You may be thinking high praise indeed, but I can honestly say in my twenty plus years experience of Sheffield dinning my tastebuds have never exploded in raptures over such delectable freshly prepared food at a standard pub meal price, and if that wasn't enough there is the added bonuses of real ale and superb staff! How do they do it?
Having taken a party of nine ranging in age from 2 to 78 we were all made to feel very relaxed and welcome by very friendly and competent staff (kitchen and bar).
My recommendation is, if you like processed food, no atmosphere, poor beer and grumpy, unhelpful staff you'll really hate The Strines. However, if you like to be treated with consideration by courteous staff (even if to your amazement your fussy 2-year-old has just demolished a plate of delectable local sausages and demanding dessert very loudly! Sorry!) who serve not only great ale but also superb home-cooked food located in breathtaking countryside then The Strines is the place to go.
Like the gentleman that travels from Rotherham, I too come from Rotherham to take my elderly father for a drink and we have always found a very warm friendly welcoming place. Everyone chats and lets you join in their conversations. An excellent place to go - we've yet to try one of the famous Sunday lunches.
Very disappointing, we had to ask specifically for a veggie menu for my daughter, and this consisted of 2 pasta and 2 tart dishes. The vegetable pasta linguini chosen was very bland and came with 2 poached eggs on top (not mentioned on menu).
My son's Thai green curry was quite good and my father in law's steak pie was lovely. However, his chips were more like potato wedges, far too thick and were very bland and tasteless. My wife ordered Lamb chops well done. These came undercooked and very pink on the inside. I ordered pan roast duck breast and it was like eating pan roast old boots. When I spoke to the waitress about it she was totally unconcerned.
I'd not been in this pub for about 12 years. It's not changed - it's still a proper boozer. The Deuchar's was spot on and I got a round of drinks and 4 roast sarnies for under £12. I miss the Wards bitter though. It made me want to move back to Sheffield!
A convenient and comfortable city centre venue whose offerings include good real ales and very reasonably priced food. Also friendly staff who take your orders after you're seated and deliver them to you.
Really angry about the Frog and Parrot age checking system.
I was born in 1980, I am a qualified primary school teacher. I have lived in Sheffield for the last three years and have enjoyed drinking at the Frog and Parrot on several occasions. However last night, whilst out on my Hen night, I was asked to prove my age because 'I looked under 25'. I didn't carry ID (funnily enough the question rarely comes up) so I produced a work card that proves I am a registered teacher. (I don't know any 17-year-old teachers). This was not accepted as proof. The bar staff point blank refused to discuss the matter any further and so lost out on our custom. The irony being that I was not drinking alcohol myself as I've been unwell and I am taking prescribed medication.
I would be interested to know if the Frog and Parrot wish to apologise for this embarrassing and inconvenient incident.
We went to the Phoenix for our Sunday lunch a few months ago, excellent food and staff, couldn't have asked for better, the food was hot, well presented and huge platefulls. The desserts were great too.
Since then we have been back a few times, and shall continue to. I can just imagine the roaring fires on a winters day.
When the curtains are closed and night has folded in, to spend an evening in Fagans is to be transported back to a Sheffield long gone. Years of nicotine have stained the ceiling dirty yellow; the wood-panelled walls would be considered ironic in certain po-faced quarters and the accumulated clutter behind the bar is a wonder to behold. Yet those pitiful souls unacquainted with this gem must not mistake Fagans for some dive. On a Friday and Saturday night it heaves with life, a joyous commixture of working-class intellectuals, musicians and authors. In the corner discussing Wednesday is a voice from the BBC, Richard Hawley holds court in the snug, behind the bar landlord Tom is a mine of knowledge, wife Barbara always rapid with withering wit and the backroom overflows with the sound of drums and plucked string.
A Saturday lunchtime spent devouring Tom's staggeringly good home-made dishes with a pint or two of Moonshine is a treat. Sunday lunches need to be ordered in advance such is the demand, but there is always the choice of a cow-pie so vast even Dan himself would struggle in vain, or maybe an ocean of stew in a bowl from the impressively composed menu for the less organised.
One day fortune will vomit on our eiderdown and a desiccated soul with Microsoft Excel in their veins will decree Fagans must make way for another executive living development, or maybe Tom and Barbara will retire and the books and the thumbed copies of Private Eye and the postcards and the chewed pens and the dust and wonky picture of a Spitfire will be replaced by a facsimile of authenticity. An "Oirish" slogan will be painted on the wall, next to a small wheelbarrow nailed there for no apparent reason and everything that made Fagans special will be lost forever.