One Sunday in December, we stopped by the Local to catch a soccer match between English titans Arsenal and Chelsea. Despite the pre-noon kickoff, the pub was packed with 150 or so footy fans, most of British descent, judging by their chatter. But what caught our attention was a quartet of thoroughly American blokes situated directly beneath the TV screen. These gentlemen, probably in their early 20s, were largely oblivious to the soccer match taking place above their heads. They were sipping pints of lager and swaying slightly from side to side. What was truly astounding about these human specimens was their faces. So swollen with drink were their boyish mugs that their eyes had been reduced to tiny slits. Puddles of sweat could be seen pooling on their pasty skin. They obviously should have been home sleeping off the previous night's Jäg-bull-weiser bender. Watching them suffer so in the daylight, we were tempted to wrench the pint glasses from their bloated fingers and demand that they ingest some nonliquid sustenance. Because these hapless drunks were actually at the right place to relieve their suffering. The Local serves up top-notch breakfast fare: Irish bacon, black and white pudding, eggs Benedict. But the true anodyne for alcohol-induced illness lies in the pub's delectable, creamy hash browns. They're like a giant sponge, sopping up the toxins from your poisoned liver. By the time your plate is cleared, you'll be rejuvenated and ready to face the day--or at least capable of making it home to bed.