Norfolk Arms

Just what London needs - another gastropub masquerading as a neighborhood institution. The Norfolk Arms in London had me rolling my eyes before I even crossed the threshold, expecting the usual parade of mediocre small plates and overpriced pints served with a side of manufactured charm. But like finding a genuine smile in Westminster, sometimes life surprises you.

Let's address the elephant in the room: The Norfolk Arms is loud. If you're hoping for an intimate tête-à-tête where you can whisper sweet nothings, you might want to reconsider. The cacophony of clinking glasses and collective chatter creates a din that would make a tube station seem peaceful. Yet somehow, against all odds, it works. The buzzing atmosphere feels genuine rather than forced, like stumbling into a party where you unexpectedly know everyone.

The Spanish-influenced menu initially struck me as another instance of London's identity crisis - a British pub serving tapas is about as authentic as a cockney accent in Mayfair. But here's where my cynicism began to crack: they actually pull it off. The ham croquettes arrive crispy and molten-centered, without a hint of the microwaved mediocrity I was secretly hoping to skewer in this review. Their patatas bravas may occasionally miss the "brava" mark, but when they hit, they hit with the precision of a dart player after just one pint instead of six.

Speaking of pints, the beer selection deserves mention. While not extensive enough to satisfy your craft beer evangelist friend who won't shut up about hop profiles, it's thoughtfully curated. The wine list follows suit - serviceable without being showy, like a reliable character actor who never gets the leading role but consistently delivers.

The Sunday roast deserves its own paragraph, if only because it managed to impress an actual Yorkshire native - a feat comparable to convincing a Parisian that London has good croissants. The Yorkshire pudding rises to the occasion (quite literally), and the roast beef achieves that elusive balance between pink and properly done that so many pubs botch spectacularly.

Their outdoor seating arrangement is typically London - picnic tables where you can watch the world go by while pretending you're not freezing. Inside, the space manages to be both cozy and spacious, a paradox that shouldn't work but does, much like the concept of British summer.

The service wavers between charmingly attentive and endearingly clueless. Your server might not know the specials written in three-foot-high letters outside, but they'll ensure your glass never runs dry with such genuine pleasantness that you'll forgive the lapse in menu knowledge.

Price-wise, the Norfolk Arms sits in that sweet spot where you can justify it for a casual Tuesday dinner but also for a weekend celebration. The bill won't cause cardiac arrest, but it might raise an eyebrow - expect to part with around £50 per person if you're doing it properly, which, in London's current dining scene, is practically charitable.

Let's talk about the cocktails because, surprisingly for a pub, they're not an afterthought. They manage to craft drinks that don't require a dictionary to order or a bank loan to purchase. The fact that they can make a proper Negroni in a place that also serves a respectable Sunday roast feels like a minor miracle.

Look, I didn't want to like the Norfolk Arms. I really didn't. London has enough decent pubs-turned-restaurants that serve small plates and big expectations. But here I am, recommending you book a table (yes, actually book - this isn't the kind of place you can just wander into on a Friday night unless disappointment is your preferred aperitif). Whether you're planning a group dinner, casual date, or just need somewhere to remind you why London's dining scene isn't completely doomed, the Norfolk Arms delivers. Just don't tell them I sent you - I have a reputation for cynicism to maintain.