Adam & Eve

Just what London needs - another pub claiming to be the city's best-kept secret. Adam & Eve sits smugly in Westminster, beckoning tourists and locals alike with its promises of authentic British charm. I approached with the enthusiasm of a dentist appointment, fully prepared to add it to my mental list of mediocre London watering holes.

Let's address the elephant in the room - yes, Adam & Eve in London does that irritatingly clever thing where it manages to be both a proper pub and actually decent. The nerve of some establishments, really. The moment you walk in, you're hit with that centuries-old wood paneling that's either genuine or the work of a set designer who deserves an Oscar. I hate that I can't tell which.

The first crack in my cynical armor appeared when the bartender actually knew how to pour a proper pint - head neither too thick nor too thin, glass tilted at precisely the right angle. It's the kind of basic competence that shouldn't be noteworthy, yet here we are, in 2025, giving out gold stars for what used to be standard practice.

Their Sunday roast (which I absolutely didn't order twice in one month) commits the unforgivable sin of being consistently excellent. The Yorkshire pudding rises like a hot air balloon and collapses with satisfying drama when pierced. The roast potatoes achieve that mythical balance of crispy exterior and fluffy interior that most pubs aspire to but botch spectacularly.

What's particularly irksome is how they've managed to modernize without losing that essential pub-ness. The payment system actually works (imagine that), they take reservations like civilized humans, and - brace yourselves - they've installed air conditioning without making the place feel like an airport lounge. They've even kept the slightly dodgy loo, presumably for authenticity's sake. It's almost like they're trying to prove you can evolve without selling your soul to a corporate chain.

The prices sit squarely in the "I'm not thrilled but I won't start a riot" category. You're not being robbed, but you're definitely contributing to someone's yacht fund. That said, when the fish and chips arrive with fish that's actually identifiable as a specific species and chips that haven't been languishing under a heat lamp since breakfast, it feels less like highway robbery and more like a fair trade.

Live music appears on select evenings, and unlike most pub entertainment, it doesn't make you want to flee to the nearest exit. They've somehow found musicians who understand that background music shouldn't require shouting over. It's infuriating how thoughtful that is.

Dogs are welcome, which leads to the charming spectacle of seeing posh Westminster suits sharing space with muddy Labs. The fact that it works - that you can see a politician's aide sharing a laugh with a dog walker - is the kind of London magic that makes you forget to be cynical for a moment.

For sports fans (I'm not one, but I hear things), they've installed screens that are visible without requiring neck contortion, and the volume is kept at a level that allows both match enjoyment and actual conversation. How inconsiderately considerate of them.

Located a stone's throw from Westminster Abbey (tourist trap central), Adam & Eve in London has no business being this good. It should be a bland, overpriced tourist trap. Instead, it's become that most dangerous of things - a pub you actually want to return to. The kind of place where you find yourself making excuses to be in the neighborhood.

Fine. I admit defeat. Book a table, especially for Sunday roast. Just don't tell them I sent you - I have a reputation to maintain. And if you happen to see a jaded food writer in the corner, pretending to take critical notes while secretly enjoying every bite, mind your own business. We all have our crosses to bear.