Barretts Free House

Just what London needs - another Irish pub masquerading as authentic while serving microwaved shepherd's pie to unsuspecting tourists. At least, that's what I expected when I grudgingly pushed open the door to Barretts Free House in Cricklewood. The name alone made me roll my eyes so hard I nearly strained something. Free house? In London? Nothing's free in this city except disappointment.

But here's the thing about Barretts Free House - and I hate myself a little for admitting this - it's actually rather good. Not "Instagram influencer posing with a perfectly styled plate" good, but genuine, honest-to-goodness, "I can't believe I'm writing this" good. The kind of place that makes you question your carefully cultivated cynicism about London pubs.

The interior hits that sweet spot between "carefully curated Irish pub aesthetic" and "actually feels like it evolved organically over decades." Sure, there's the obligatory vintage Guinness posters and dark wood everything, but it lacks that theme-park quality that makes most "Irish" pubs about as authentic as a three-pound note. The worn spots on the bar tell real stories, not interior decorator fantasies.

Speaking of the bar, let's talk about the Guinness. I've had my share of badly-poured pints in London - flat, rushed, or served with all the care of a fast-food drive-through order. But these folks actually know what they're doing. The perfect two-part pour, the proper settle time, the cream-white head that holds its shape until the last sip. It's the kind of attention to detail that makes you forget you're paying London prices for your pint (though they're surprisingly reasonable for the postcode).

The food menu is refreshingly unpretentious, though that's not to say it's basic. Yes, you'll find your pub classics - fish and chips, steak and ale pie, the usual suspects. But they're executed with a level of care that suggests someone in the kitchen actually gives a damn. The sirloin steak (served Irish-style with both chips AND boiled potatoes, because why choose?) is cooked precisely to order, and the gravy actually tastes like it came from meat rather than a granule.

What truly sets Barretts apart - and I'm grinding my teeth as I type this - is the staff. In a city where genuine warmth from service staff is rarer than an affordable flat, the team here manages to be legitimately welcoming without crossing into that uncomfortable overfamiliarity that makes you want to fake a phone call and leave. They remember regulars, guide newcomers through the menu without condescension, and seem to genuinely enjoy their work. I know, I was skeptical too.

The space works equally well for a quiet afternoon pint with the paper (yes, people still read those) or a livelier evening watching whatever sport is on the impressively positioned TVs. The outdoor seating area, while not exactly the Riviera, provides a decent spot for those determined to drink al fresco in London's famously reliable weather.

They've even managed to get the basics right - the loos are clean (a miracle in London pub terms), the music is at a volume that allows actual conversation, and the card machine doesn't have a minimum spend that forces you to buy crisps you don't want.

Look, I came to Barretts Free House in London ready to write a scathing review about yet another soulless attempt to capitalize on Irish pub culture. Instead, I found myself becoming one of those irritating people who tells their friends, "I know this great little place in Cricklewood..." It's not perfect - nowhere is - but it's genuine in a city that increasingly feels like it's trying too hard.

If you're in the area (or even if you're not), do yourself a favor and stop by. Order a pint, maybe some food if you're hungry, and watch your cynicism slowly dissolve like the head on a properly poured Guinness. Just don't tell them I sent you - I've got a reputation to maintain.