Lord Palmerston

Just what London needs - another pub named after a 19th-century aristocrat. The Lord Palmerston sits there in all its Victorian glory, probably expecting us to be impressed by its mere existence. And yet, against my better judgment and deeply ingrained cynicism, I find myself returning to this North London watering hole with embarrassing frequency.

Let's address the elephant in the room - there's no proper food menu anymore. Just crisps and nuts, like some kind of throwback to when people apparently survived on bar snacks alone. But here's the thing: in a city where every pub seems desperate to reinvent itself as a gastropub serving deconstructed fish and chips on slate tiles, there's something refreshingly honest about the Lord Palmerston's stark admission that you're here to drink, not dine.

The interior is exactly what you'd expect from a traditional London pub, complete with dark wood furnishings that have witnessed decades of spilled pints and heated football debates. It should feel cliché. It should make me roll my eyes. Instead, it feels like coming home - if your home happened to have four pool tables and an impressive selection of reasonably priced gin.

Speaking of which, let's talk about those prices. In a city where a simple G&T can cost more than your monthly streaming subscriptions combined, the Lord Palmerston's £6 double measures feel like a clerical error that nobody's bothered to correct. I'm almost reluctant to mention it in print, lest someone in management realizes their mistake.

The garden area is where this place really shows its hand. It's not one of those sad little smoking areas with two plastic chairs and a umbrella that's seen better days. No, this is a proper outdoor space that somehow manages to be both spacious and cozy - perfect for watching boxing matches on the outdoor screens, which is apparently a thing here and, surprisingly, works better than it has any right to.

The clientele is an eclectic mix that shouldn't work but somehow does. City workers trying to escape their corporate overlords rub shoulders with local characters who look like they could tell you stories about the neighborhood from the 1970s. The conversations you'll overhear range from cryptocurrency predictions to heated debates about Arsenal's latest tactical failures.

Don't come here expecting mixologists in suspenders crafting artisanal cocktails with locally foraged herbs. The Lord Palmerston knows exactly what it is - a proper drinking establishment where the beer is cold, the spirits are generously poured, and the staff wear football jerseys without a hint of irony. In fact, the casual approach to service might shock those used to the polished pretense of central London venues, but there's something refreshing about bartenders who treat you like a regular, even if it's your first visit.

The quiz machines stand like sentinels in the corner, their dated graphics and questionable trivia categories serving as a reminder that not everything needs an app or a touchscreen to be entertaining. They're just the right level of tacky to be charming, much like the pub itself.

For those keeping score, yes, they welcome dogs, which means you'll occasionally have to share your personal space with someone's enormous furry companion who thinks they're a lap dog. It's either annoying or endearing, depending entirely on your blood alcohol level and general disposition toward four-legged pub critics.

The Lord Palmerston exists in that sweet spot between a dive bar and a gentrified pub, refusing to fully commit to either category. It's the kind of place where you can still get a proper pint without having to mortgage your house, where the music is just loud enough to give atmosphere but not so loud that you have to shout your drink order, and where the ghosts of countless good nights out seem to linger in the corners, nodding approvingly at your choice of venue.

Look, I didn't want to like the Lord Palmerston. I wanted to dismiss it as just another London pub trading on its historical namesake and location. But much like its namesake's foreign policy, it's surprisingly effective despite all odds. If you're in North London and in need of a proper pub experience - one that hasn't been focus-grouped or Instagram-optimized - you could do far worse than spending an evening here. Just don't tell them I sent you. I have a reputation to maintain.