Grafton Arms

Just what London needs - another pub claiming to be a cut above your average boozer. The Grafton Arms sits there in its Victorian splendor, practically daring you to be impressed. And yes, I rolled my eyes when a friend insisted we meet there, already composing withering comparisons to the countless other gastropubs dotting the capital's streets like Instagram influencers at a free champagne launch.

But damn it all to hell, the Grafton Arms in London actually managed to charm my cynical soul. I blame the steak and ale pie - a dish that's usually an excuse to offload yesterday's beef under a pastry alibi. Here, it arrives as a proper, hand-crafted thing of beauty that makes you question every other pie you've condemned yourself to eating. The gravy alone deserves its own sonnet, though you won't catch me writing one.

Let's talk about the space, shall we? The interior walks that precarious line between "preserved historical character" and "we discovered Instagram filters." Somehow, it works. The Victorian architecture remains intact without feeling like you've wandered onto the set of a period drama, and the lighting manages to flatter both the building and its occupants - no small feat in an era where most pubs seem to choose between operating-theatre bright or coal-mine dark.

The beer selection could make a German weep with joy, though they'd probably never admit it. And while I typically approach pub cocktails with the same enthusiasm as a root canal, the bartenders here display an almost offensive level of competence. They make a proper Old Fashioned - one that doesn't taste like they learned the recipe from a TikTok video five minutes before their shift.

The fish and chips deserve special mention, if only because they've managed to make me care about fish and chips again. The batter achieves that mythical balance between crisp and light that most places chase but few achieve. The chips - sorry, "triple-cooked fries" because we're all pretentious now - actually justify their existence rather than serving as mere vehicles for malt vinegar.

Service walks the perfect line between attentive and hovering, though I suspect they've been trained to spot food critics at fifty paces. No matter - I've observed them treating regular punters with the same measured care, which is refreshing in a city where service often swings between obsequious and openly hostile.

The pricing sits in that sweet spot where you can't quite complain but still feel compelled to check your bank balance the next morning. It's not cheap - this is London after all - but it's not the daylight robbery many establishments consider their business model. You're paying for quality, albeit with a small surcharge for location and ambiance.

Dog-friendly without becoming a canine circus, group-friendly without descending into chaos, and sports-showing without transforming into a screaming arena - the Grafton Arms has somehow mastered the delicate art of being all things to all people without losing its soul in the process. It's infuriating, really.

The proximity to Victoria Station means you'll occasionally battle tourists clutching their Buckingham Palace selfies, but even they can't diminish the pub's inherent charm. And yes, you can actually reserve a table - a concept seemingly alien to many London pubs who prefer to operate on a Darwinian "survival of the pushiest" basis.

Look, I didn't want to like the Grafton Arms. I have a reputation to maintain, and genuine enthusiasm is bad for my brand. But if you're in London and seeking a pub that remembers what pubs are supposed to be - while simultaneously evolving beyond the sticky-floored cliché - you'll find it here. Just don't tell them I sent you. I've got my own table to think about, and I'd prefer it didn't get mysteriously "lost" in the reservation system.