Five Mornings, Five Pans: Reading a Burslem November at The Leopard

On a Monday morning in Burslem, the soup board is decided before the kettle has boiled twice. At The Leopard, the board by the back-room door is a sheet of A2 chalkboard, a dab of yellow chalk for the price, and a line of white for whatever the kitchen has talked itself into. It is not written on Sunday night. It is written after someone has been out in the weather, looked in the veg rack, and had a word with the stockpot.

This week — Monday 9 to Friday 13 November 2026 — offered a fair test. Not because anything dramatic happened, but because November rarely does. It gives you frost, rain, a mild grey Wednesday and a Friday that arrives before you are ready. The soup board has to keep up.

Monday: Leek and Potato, With a Bacon Accent

Monday started cold and bright, the sort of morning that makes the top of the potbank chimney stand out sharp against the sky. The forecast said dry until lunch, then a chance of drizzle. The kitchen said leeks.

There were three bunches from the market, bought on Saturday and starting to look like they had opinions. There were potatoes in the bottom of the rack that had been peeled for Sunday and not used. And there was a bag of bacon trim in the fridge, the offcuts from the weekend's sandwiches, which is the sort of thing a pub kitchen keeps because throwing it away feels like a small crime.

So: leeks softened in butter, potatoes cubed small, bacon trim fried until it gave up its fat, chicken stock from the weekend, a lot of black pepper. The board went up at twenty past eleven: Leek and Potato with Bacon. £4.50 a mug, £5.95 with a cob. By one o'clock, the first pan was down to the scrape.

Tuesday: Split Pea and Ham, Because the Sky Meant It

Tuesday was wet. Not dramatic wet, just persistent, the kind that gets into the shoulders. The board had been wiped and rewritten by half past ten: Split Pea and Ham.

The peas had been soaked overnight, which is the sort of forward planning that looks like discipline but is really just someone remembering at ten to closing. The ham hock came from the butcher's counter, and the stock was made with the bone and a bay leaf and not much else. The soup was thick enough to stand a spoon in. On a day like that, it needed to be.

The forecast had said rain from eight. It was right. The board got a smear of damp across the corner where the door opens, and nobody minded. Two regulars came in at noon with wet coats and ordered it without looking at the board, which is its own kind of review.

Wednesday: Roots and Barley, and the Mild Grey Problem

Wednesday was milder, grey, the sort of day that makes November feel like it is stalling. The kitchen had carrots, parsnips, a swede and a bag of pearl barley. There was also half a celeriac that had been bought with good intentions and was now looking at the back of the fridge.

The soup was Roast Root and Barley. The roots were chopped and roasted first with oil and thyme, which takes longer but gives the soup a sweetness that boiling alone does not. The barley went in with the stock and cooked until it was tender but still had a bit of chew. It was not a soup that shouted. It was a soup that sat there and did its job.

The board said: Roast Root and Barley — £4.50 a mug. A couple came in for lunch and asked if it was vegan. It was, until the kitchen added a spoon of creme fraiche to the bowl. They had it without. The kitchen made a note for next time. That is how the board learns.

Thursday: Mushroom and Thyme, Frost on the Roof

Thursday started with frost. Proper frost, the kind that makes the roof of the back room look sugared and sends everyone to the radiator. The forecast said cold all day, and it was not wrong.

The soup was Mushroom and Thyme. The mushrooms were a mix — chestnut, a few flat caps, some dried porcini soaked in hot water. The soaking liquid went into the pot, which is the sort of detail that makes a soup taste like more than the sum of its parts. There was thyme from the little pot by the kitchen window, which has survived three winters and a fall off the sill.

The board went up late, nearly twelve, because the first pan was too thin and the kitchen thickened it with a spoon of flour and butter. Nobody saw the panic. That is the point of a pub kitchen. The customer sees the board. The kitchen sees the corrections.

Friday: The Friday Pan, and the Art of Using It Up

Friday is the day the fridge gets audited. Not officially, not with a clipboard, but with a slow look and a willingness to be honest. The delivery comes tomorrow. Whatever is left has to earn its place or go in the pan.

This Friday — 13 November 2026 — the board says: Cook's Friday Broth. That is the polite name. In the kitchen it is known as the Friday Pan. It had the last of the carrots, a bit of swede, some lentils, the end of the ham, a handful of barley, and a spoon of tomato puree. It tasted like a week closing its eyes.

The board is not a menu in the strict sense. It is a diary written in stock and vegetables. It knows the weather because someone has to stand in it at half seven. It knows the market because someone has to carry the bags back. And it knows Friday because Friday is when the kitchen stops pretending it can use everything and starts making soup out of what is left.

By the time the board goes up, the decision is already old. But that is fine. A good soup board is not a forecast. It is a record of what the week actually did.