Marquis of Granby

Just what New Cross needed - another traditional London pub with delusions of grandeur. The Marquis of Granby in London stands proudly on its corner like it's still 1936, complete with ceramic 'House of Toby' signs that practically scream "we're authentic, honestly." I approached with the enthusiasm of a wet Sunday in February.

But damn it all if this place hasn't wormed its way into my cynical heart like an unwanted but eventually beloved pet. The exterior mural, added in 2017, should be tacky but somehow works - much like everything else about this stubbornly charming establishment. It's the kind of pub that makes you forget you're in Zone 2 London, which is either a blessing or a curse depending on your perspective.

The island servery, a Victorian holdover that dominates the space, serves as the pub's heart - both literally and metaphorically. Dark wood paneling and proper pub carpeting (you know the kind - designed to hide a multitude of sins) create an atmosphere that should feel contrived but doesn't. It's like stepping into your grandfather's favorite pub, assuming your grandfather had impeccable taste and a slight Irish bent.

Speaking of which, the Irish influence is about as subtle as a Guinness billboard, with County Donegal flags and GAA memorabilia adorning the walls. But unlike the try-hard Irish pubs that litter London like discarded lottery tickets, the Marquis of Granby wears its Emerald Isle appreciation with authentic charm. It feels earned rather than manufactured.

The beer selection is refreshingly unpretentious. No triple-hopped craft nonsense with names like "Hipster's Revenge" here - just proper pints at prices that won't make your wallet weep. The cask ales are kept in impressive condition, and the mainstream offerings are served with the kind of care that's becoming increasingly rare in London's pub scene. The lines are clean enough to eat off of, which is more than can be said for some establishments charging twice as much.

Let's talk about the staff because they're doing something rather unfashionable these days - actually seeming to enjoy their jobs. The service manages to be both efficient and genuinely warm, like being served by someone's favorite aunt who happens to know her way around a beer tap. It's the kind of authentic hospitality that makes you question whether you've accidentally stepped through a portal to a time when people actually knew their local publican's name.

The entertainment options are refreshingly straightforward - pub quiz, live sports, and a jukebox that hasn't been updated since Oasis was still together. And you know what? It works. There's something deeply satisfying about watching football in a pub that doesn't think it needs to reinvent itself for the Instagram generation.

The crowd is an improbable mix that shouldn't work but absolutely does - old-school locals sharing space with students, neither group looking out of place. It's like watching a social experiment that accidentally succeeded. The atmosphere manages to be both lively and oddly peaceful, like a well-orchestrated chaos.

For those keeping score, yes, there's outdoor seating (though calling it that might be generous), they welcome dogs (often better behaved than their owners), and they take cards (welcome to the 21st century, finally). The location, near both New Cross and New Cross Gate stations, means you've got no excuse not to find it, though you might want to pretend you got lost if anyone catches you enjoying yourself too much.

Look, I didn't want to like the Marquis of Granby. It goes against everything my jaded, modern London sensibilities stand for. But if you're going to insist on visiting a proper London pub, you might as well make it this one. At least here the nostalgia feels earned, the prices won't require a second mortgage, and the welcome is genuine. Just don't blame me if you end up becoming a regular - I tried to be cynical, I really did.