Alright, let’s set the scene. A non-Irish bloke walks into a pub in Bristol, eyes full of dreams, searching for that holy grail of pints: The perfect Guinness.
No, I’m not Irish, but I’ve spent a decent amount of time pretending I am (thanks to TikTok and Fontaines D.C., of course). Every pub in this city claims to serve the best pint of Guinness, but do they really? Or is it all just a ruse to sell you overpriced stout with a side of trendy shamrocks? Stick with me, because we’re about to embark on a voyage of frothy dreams and slightly more realistic expectations. Spoiler alert: It might involve a lot of disappointment.
Seamus O’Donnells
Starting off strong with a classic in Bristol. If you haven’t had a Guinness here, have you even had a Guinness? The walls are lined with the ghosts of pub golf nights and last-minute stag dos, the kind of place where you can pretend you’re in Dublin without the Ryanair baggage fees. A proper pint, poured with care, no nonsense.
The White Bear
I can’t talk about this one without a tear streaming out of one eye. My once-beloved Tab meeting spot is no longer pulling through. The taps have run dry, but the glasses remain—filled with a stout that tricks the untrained eye but punishes the taste buds. I tried it once. I regretted it much later. A tragic tale. The picture above was taken before everything turned upside down—before they got rid of Guinness altogether. Now, the only thing they’re pulling is my leg.
King Street
Whilst I am all for an evening on a cold wooden bench, I refuse to overlook the sheer audacity of serving my sacred pint in a plastic cup. Nothing screams artisanal brewery like drinking your stout in something that feels one step removed from a McDonald’s milkshake container. The Fontaines fans, now self-proclaimed Guinness purists, would be just as horrified as I am—no doubt composing angry tweets about it between sips.
The Cori Tap
Well, you’ve made it this far, so you clearly have a strong stomach—unlike the person who tries to order a Guinness here. A legendary Clifton institution, famous for its gut-wrenchingly strong Exhibition cider, but if you walk in and ask for a Guinness, expect to be met with a blank stare or possibly escorted out. This is a cider house through and through—ordering anything else feels like sacrilege. Still, if you squint hard enough at your pint of 8.4 per cent rocket fuel, you might be able to convince yourself it’s just an alternative stout. Bonus points if you make it down the hill in a straight line afterward.
The White Lion
A Guinness with a view? I couldn’t ask for anything more… except maybe my drink being served in the correct glass. I haven’t paid £7 to sip from a generic pint glass like some unseasoned amateur. To add insult to injury, the gentleman next to me received his in a proper Guinness glass. This is class warfare, plain and simple.
The Anchor
Reliable. Solid. The pub equivalent of your mate who’s always a little late but never lets you down in the end. A cracking pint, poured well with that familiar creamy head—but be prepared to wage a small war at the bar before you get your hands on one. The wait is long, the crowd intense, but when you finally take that first sip, it almost makes the struggle worth it. Almost.
Spoons
Now, I know Guinness isn’t your first thought when ordering in a Wetherspoon before a night in La Rocca, but sometimes necessity calls. It’s cheap, it’s there, and crucially, it’s Guinness (sort of). That said, receiving it in a Ruddles glass was a personal attack. I sent a picture to my parents, and they simply replied, “Jesus Christ.” Enough said.
The Flat
The student budget solution. Buy a four-pack (or “buy” some Guinness glasses from your local), perfect your pour, and attempt to split the G in the comfort of your questionably hygienic kitchen. No risk of a plastic cup here—just the looming threat of someone nicking your can when your back is turned.
So, after this extensive research, have I found the best Guinness in Bristol? Possibly. But in the age of Mr. Bruv and mass Irish romanticisation, maybe the real best pint was the overpriced one we drank along the way—held high in triumph, photographed from three different angles, and dissected like it was a fine wine by a table of self-proclaimed connoisseurs who, just last week, were drinking Dark Fruits out of a can.
