Prince of Wales

Ah yes, the Prince of Wales in London - another "traditional" pub trying to convince us it's not just riding on the coattails of its prime location. I've lost count of how many establishments bearing this royal moniker dot the city's streets, each claiming to be the crown jewel of British pub culture. But here's the thing about this particular Prince of Wales: it's annoyingly decent.

I walked in fully prepared to pen another scathing review about tourist-trap mediocrity. The place has all the standard pub trappings - dark wood, brass fixtures, that peculiar smell of centuries-old beer soaked into the floorboards. Yet somehow, against my better judgment and professional cynicism, I found myself... enjoying it?

Let's talk about those allegedly "award-winning" pies they keep banging on about. I ordered the steak and ale version, fully expecting to write a paragraph about how the awards must have been handed out during the Great Depression when any food was good food. Instead, I'm forced to admit that the crusty, golden-brown masterpiece placed before me actually deserved recognition. The meat was tender enough to cut with a spoon (though I used a fork, I'm not a complete savage), and the gravy had depth that suggested someone in the kitchen actually knows what they're doing.

The real ales on tap rotate frequently enough to keep things interesting, and the staff actually seems to know their stuff. When I tried to catch them out with obscure beer questions (yes, I'm that person), they responded with knowledge that went beyond reading the pump clips. It's infuriating when you're hoping to find fault.

For a centrally located London pub, the prices won't make you choke on your pint - though they're not exactly giving it away either. Main courses hover in that sweet spot where you can't quite complain but still feel like maybe, just maybe, you could find better value somewhere else. Spoiler alert: you probably won't.

The space itself manages to thread the needle between cozy and claustrophobic. There's enough room to navigate between tables without performing an interpretive dance, and the seating arrangements actually make sense - a rarity in London pubs where furniture placement often seems inspired by a game of drunk Tetris.

They've done something clever with the lighting too - bright enough to see your food but dim enough to maintain that essential pub atmosphere. The live music nights (yes, they have those) don't make you want to stuff napkins in your ears, which is more than I can say for most venues attempting "entertainment."

Dog-friendly without being a canine circus, group-friendly without descending into chaos, and equipped with outdoor seating that doesn't feel like you're dining in a traffic jam - it's as if they're deliberately making it difficult to find fault. There's even decent sport-watching facilities for those who enjoy that sort of thing, though mercifully, it doesn't dominate the atmosphere.

The Prince of Wales in London has achieved something I thought impossible: it's a tourist-accessible pub that locals actually frequent. The staff manages to be attentive without hovering, knowledgeable without pretension, and efficient without rushing. It's maddening how well they walk these lines.

Look, I don't want to like the Prince of Wales. It goes against everything I stand for as a professional cynic. But if you're in this part of London and in need of a proper pub experience - one that won't leave you questioning your life choices or your bank balance - you might as well give in and visit. Just don't tell them I sent you. I have a reputation to maintain, and apparently, they're doing quite fine without my reluctant endorsement.