Old Fountain

Just what London needs - another pub claiming to be a cut above the rest. The Old Fountain near Old Street station had me rolling my eyes before I even crossed the threshold. A "proper pub with proper food," they say. Right. Because we haven't heard that one before in this city of endless gastropub pretenders.

But damn it all if this place hasn't wormed its way into my cynical heart like some kind of beer-soaked earworm. The Old Fountain in London's perpetually trying-too-hard Tech City manages to pull off that rarest of feats - authenticity without artifice. And believe me, I wanted to hate it.

Let's start with the beer selection, shall we? While every other establishment in EC1 is falling over itself to stock the latest craft brewing experiment involving mango-infused quinoa or whatever, the Old Fountain maintains a rotating cast of actually drinkable cask ales. Four hand pumps offering selections that don't require a dictionary to pronounce. Revolutionary concept, that.

The rooftop terrace nearly had me reaching for my reviewer's cliche bingo card. But here's the thing - it's actually pleasant up there. No Instagram-optimized fairy lights or try-hard botanical installations. Just honest-to-goodness outdoor seating with umbrellas that seem to exist for the radical purpose of, you know, providing shade.

I approached the Sunday roast with the weary resignation of someone who's suffered through countless dry Yorkshire puddings and tepid gravy boats. Yet here I sat, confronted with a plate that made me question my hard-earned skepticism. The pork belly was rendered to that precise point between succulent and structured, the crackling shattering with satisfying defiance. The Yorkshire pudding - and I can't believe I'm writing this - actually tasted like it was made by someone who understands the art form rather than a frozen food factory.

The gravy deserves its own paragraph.

There. I gave it one. Because sometimes less is more, and this gravy knows exactly what it is - a proper, rich enhancement rather than a flood of brown mediocrity.

The staff, surprisingly, don't seem to have received the memo about affected aloofness being the required attitude in London pubs. They're actually... helpful? And appear to know their products? I found myself becoming increasingly annoyed at having nothing to be annoyed about.

The pricing sits in that sweet spot where you can't quite complain but aren't being openly robbed. Yes, you'll pay more than your local Wetherspoons, but then again, you'll also get food that wasn't reheated in a microwave by someone whose culinary training consisted of pushing buttons.

Dog-friendly without being a canine circus, group-friendly without descending into chaos, and taking bookings without requiring a PhD in advance planning - it's as if someone actually thought about what makes a pub work. The horror.

Location-wise, it's a two-minute stumble from Old Street station, which means it should be overrun with the worst of London's tech bros and marketing mavens. Somehow, through what I can only assume is some sort of dark magic, it maintains a balanced crowd that doesn't make you want to flee immediately.

For those keeping score of modern conveniences, yes, they take cards, contactless, and probably Bitcoin (okay, not Bitcoin, but you get the idea). There's takeout available for those who prefer to eat their roast in shame at home, though why you'd deny yourself the full experience is beyond me.

Look, I didn't want to like the Old Fountain. I really didn't. London has enough "good pubs" that turn out to be all style and no substance. But this place? This infuriating gem near Old Street? It's the real deal. And I hate that I have to tell you that. Go there, have a pint, order the roast, and sit on the roof terrace. Just don't blame me when it becomes your new favorite pub in London. I tried to be cynical, I really did. But sometimes, just sometimes, a place deserves its reputation. Damn it.