Good ale, proper scran and a warm Burslem welcome.
Big screens, plastic glasses and twenty quid on the door have become the standard way to see in a new year. We'd rather do it with a bell, a hot pie and the people who live on your street. A look at how The Leopard marks the turn of 2026 into 2027 — and why quieter is better.
Four rounds, a box of blunt pencils and a round of questions where the obvious answer is the wrong one. Our Tuesday quiz has been running long enough to have its own traditions, its own grudges and its own wooden spoon — here's what actually happens in the back room.
There is a water bowl just inside the door of The Leopard, and it gets filled before the pumps are pulled most mornings. A look at the dogs who treat the place as a second home, the small rituals that keep a dog-friendly boozer running, and the etiquette every owner ought to know before the lead comes off.
Step through the door at The Leopard and you'll hear a language built for bar stools, busy tables and people who haven't quite finished saying hello. Here's a friendly glossary of Potteries pub talk — part translation, part quiz, part nod to the regulars who keep it alive.
The soup board at The Leopard is not written the night before. It is negotiated at dawn between the market, the forecast and whatever the kitchen needs to shift before Friday. Here is how one week of November 2026 looked from the pass.
Sunday lunch at The Leopard looks like a single, generous hour. Behind it sits a week of small decisions — a butcher's order, a stock pot, a tray of potatoes — and a gravy that does more talking than the meat.
To the left of the door hangs a corkboard the colour of stewed tea, and on it the town tells its own story — lost cats, funeral teas, choir practice and a flyer for a band that split up years ago. A closer look at the paper trail that keeps Burslem talking.
On Port Vale home Saturdays, lunch at The Leopard runs to a timetable set by bus times, turnstiles and the quiet urgency of a pint that needs finishing. This is how matchday food actually moves through a Burslem pub — and why the kitchen keeps it plain, quick and filling.
The clocks have gone back, the market stalls have turned to roots and the blackboard at The Leopard is being edited with a rubber rather than a ruler. This is the case for a November pub menu that gets shorter, sharper and warmer — and for the pies, stews and puddings that earn their chalk.
Behind the bar at The Leopard sits a drawer that has quietly become a small archive of Burslem lives — odd glasses, spare keys, a folded letter, a one-eyed toy cat. It is not a museum, but it remembers plenty.
Our hanging sign has been repainted four times, gilded twice and argued over once. A slow look at the cat above the door, the hands that keep her looking back at Burslem, and why a good pub sign is public art worth stopping for on a dark November night.
Before your pint ever meets the hand pump, it spends a quiet apprenticeship in a cold room under the bar. We went down the steps at The Leopard to watch a line clean, a cask being tapped and a chiller keeping its own counsel through the night — and to explain why the same beer can taste like two different drinks depending on the ten minutes a week nobody claps for.
Long before the first pint is pulled, The Leopard is already halfway through its day. A weekday morning behind the bar, down the cellar steps and around the veg boxes — the quiet, unglamorous rituals that make a Burslem welcome look effortless.
No vouchers, no gimmicks, no QR codes promising a free shot of something blue. Just twenty-four small, specific reasons to push the door open at The Leopard this December, counted out one day at a time in proper Burslem fashion.
Christmas Day gets the fuss, the timings and the good plates. Boxing Day gets the real Burslem welcome: a gentle pint, a proper pick at the leftovers and nowhere in particular to be. Here is why 26 December might just be the most pub-shaped day of the year.
A brass clock stuck at ten past nine, a cracked tile rescued from a skip, a photograph nobody can date. A wander round The Leopard's walls, and the regulars who keep the stories attached to them.
A proper pub is judged by its bar top, not its laminated starters. Nine things we think belong beside a pint in Burslem — and exactly which Staffordshire ale to put with each of them.
The festive menu doesn't start in the kitchen. It starts at the market stall, with a list, a chat and a box of sprouts. Here's how The Leopard builds a Christmas dinner that keeps Burslem on the plate.
Every pub has a geography, and The Leopard's is more opinionated than most. From the window bench to the back snug, here's how to pick the right corner for the weather, the company and the pint in front of you.
A pub menu can chase every trend going and still leave you cold. At The Leopard, proper scran starts with the dishes Burslem already knows by heart — oatcakes, lobby, faggots and the rest. This is a defence of the plates that belong on a local menu, not just in a food writer's memory.