I had a pint in Lidl’s new pub – I wouldn’t go back

It’s mid-afternoon in Dundonald, a protestant suburb in east Belfast, and on the other side of a car park, is The Middle Ale, Lidl’s first pub, which opened last month. Next door is the supermarket proper and a Lidl off-license. It’s striking, a corner site painted in the brand’s distinctive blue and yellow colours. I can see one or two customers milling about inside, shopping bags with them, as a security guard in a crisp white shirt gets out of a Range Rover and clips on a black tie. “Are you the lad up from Dublin?” he asks. “London,” I say, and he laughs at me. Inside, the pub is quiet in mid-afternoon, but customers are slowly filtering in. Some are in post-supermarket shop, while others appear to have made their way here directly. There’s room for 60, seated. And the place is immaculate, the cleanest pub I’ve seen, and I’ve helped to open brand new ones in my time. Shorts On a wall by the front window are shelves of Lidl products: bottles of washing up liquid, laundry detergent, rolls of kitchen towels and bags of dishwasher tablets lined up in neat sets of three. At the far end of the room, above burgundy banquettes, are boxes of own-brand cereals, condiments and canned goods, while etched mirrors and Lidl-positive newspaper cuttings hang on colourful walls either side. The place has the makings and markings of a pub, though is clearly operated by a supermarket. Bright and gleaning, it’s a sort of halfway house, perhaps more film set or novelty showroom than anything else. The floor is white and blue, the tables and bar bright red; spirits are Lidl’s — including its award-winning vodka — though the likes of Jameson, Bushmills and Smirnoff are available. As for beer, it’s a fairly regular selection for a boozer: among others, Bud Light, Estrella, Guinness. I have a pint of the latter. It’s poured well by one of two bartenders in traditional supermarket get-up. “You’ve got to have a Guinness in Northern Ireland,” says one of the Lidl public relations team, who appears out of nowhere. She disappears just as quickly. Josh sampling a Guinness in the pub, which he says feels more like a film set than a real boozer Opening Lidl’s first pub is no small endeavour. The German chain spent £500,000 on the project and created at least eight new jobs in the process. Contrary to earlier expectations, the pub is no stunt; it’s here to stay. Its efforts are more significant still when you consider Belfast’s restrictive licensing laws. In place is the “surrender principle”, a historic rule that means there is a finite number of licenses, rendering it almost impossible to get a new grant for a pub, bar, restaurant or off-licence. Instead, an existing licence must be surrendered or sold, often for hundreds of thousands, if not millions of pounds. The law, which dates back to 1923, first operated as a “two out, one in” system, but has been “one in, one out” since 1971. Applicants must also prove there is an “inadequacy” of provision in the area. Critics argue the policy restricts competition, especially for smaller, independent venues. A study by experts at the University of Stirling, commissioned by Stormont’s Department for Communities and published last year, found “deep-seated problems”, suggesting it “stifled growth”. But communities minister Gordon Lyons rejected a number of changes included in the report. He said they “could have significant and unintended consequences on the economic viability of our hospitality sector”. Existing publicans say they paid big money to acquire their licences and changes to the hospitality eco-system would see their value crash. Many see licences as part of their business plan, and pension. And so for Lidl to manage to obtain a licence is no small feat, even for a multinational corporation with money in the bank. The process took years — navigating and ensuring compliance with Northern Ireland’s complex licensing laws. Lidl eventually secured an old and existing licence from a recently closed bar and restaurant nearby. Now open and the pub is busy with locals, new regulars, visitors from out of town and a handful of tourists, some from as far afield as Denmark and the US. The Middle Ale is the only pub for miles. There have been one or two incidents since the Middle Ale opened in June. On launch night, a fight broke out, resulting in one man being sent to hospital with non-serious injuries. “One lad was mouthing off,” the security guard, Michael, tells me. “And some young lads were winding him up. There aren’t any other pubs around, so it’s the law of averages.” Influencers have also visited, with some being asked to stop filming, or to leave by staff. “One or two were a bit provocative,” Michael adds. For Ken and Joyce Matthews, in town shopping from Donaghdee, the pub is a handy pitstop. “We just wanted to see what it’s like,” Joyce tells The i Paper. “It looks quite good, quirky. He [Ken] can drive in and then have a pint while I do the shopping. I’ll drive back. I think we’ll be back in.” Though both indicated they’d welcome more choice: “The licensing laws here are a f**king disgrace,” Ken adds. “Belfast is on the up. There’s so much going on. We should be supportive of small businesses.” Ken and Joyce Matthews who were visiting after a shopping trip By the bar, Richard, who declines to offer his surname, is having a pint of pilsner after coming into town to do his dad’s shopping. “I was thirsty afterwards,” he laughs. “This is my first visit. I think it’s brilliant. Nice and clean, comfortable, and the bar staff are lovely. I’m just having a quick pint of Tennent’s, which I love, before I head home for dinner.” As Richard leaves, John Dunlop arrives and takes his spot at the far end of the bar. “I’ve not been in a pub like this before,” he says. “They do quite a good pint here. Although I prefer Italian beers nowadays. There should probably be a happy hour.” Richard thinks the pub should be offering a happy hour to customers As the afternoon draws on, I make tracks before the evening rush. Other than crisps and nuts, Lidl’s pub — a little curiously — doesn’t serve food. And I’m hungry. I’ve got a booking at Regency House, where the Irish chef Chris McClurg, formerly of the Michelin-starred No.6 in Cornwall, is newly in situ. I think about the Lidl pub over dinner. It’s almost an accident of a place, a strange happenstance thanks to a 1923 law. Would I return? No. Even if the Guinness is decent, the novelty wears off quickly. I can’t help but feel like Belfast’s newest hospitality premises should not be operated by a supermarket. Still, for some locals, it appears to be a lifeline in a town somewhat devoid of places to drink.