Prince of Wales

Just what London needs - another pub claiming to be the crown jewel of Wimbledon. The Prince of Wales in London has the audacity to position itself as both a traditional British watering hole and a "modern dining experience." I approached with the same enthusiasm I reserve for dental appointments, fully expecting yet another mediocre attempt at gastropub relevance.

I hate to admit when I'm wrong. Really hate it. But somewhere between the surprisingly competent cocktail service and the inexplicably spotless toilets (a miracle in London pub terms), this royal pretender started to win me over. The Prince of Wales manages to pull off that elusive balance between maintaining its classic pub soul while acknowledging we're no longer in the era of warm beer and stale crisps.

Let's address the elephant in the room - the live music. Usually, pub bands make me want to commit crimes against humanity, but the weekend performers here actually know which end of their instruments to hold. The sound system is calibrated by someone with functioning ears, and the playlist between sets won't make you question your life choices. It's almost like they... care?

The staff, annoyingly, make it difficult to maintain my professional cynicism. They've mastered that rare art of being attentive without hovering like anxious helicopters. They actually seem to enjoy their jobs, which is suspicious but oddly refreshing. I caught myself smiling at their banter more than once, a grave breach of critic protocol.

Now, about the food. I arrived ready to pen a scathing review of another pub serving microwaved mediocrity, but the kitchen had other plans. The squid (yes, I'm as surprised as you are that I'm recommending squid from a pub) arrives properly cooked - not the rubber bands lesser establishments try to pass off as calamari. The menu walks that fine line between pub classics and modern fare without tripping into pretentiousness. It's reasonably priced for what you get, though I've had better meals for similar money. But then again, those places didn't have the same comfortable buzz about them.

The space itself deserves mention. They've managed to preserve the traditional pub atmosphere while sneaking in modern comforts. The outdoor seating area doesn't feel like an afterthought, and the interior strikes a balance between cozy and claustrophobic. During big sporting events, the screens are positioned so you can actually see them - a concept that seems to elude many London pubs.

Dog owners, rejoice - your four-legged friends are welcome here. Though watching posh Wimbledon types try to keep their designer dogs from mixing with common mutts provides its own entertainment. The crowd is an eclectic mix of locals, tennis pilgrims, and people who actually seem to know their way around a wine list.

Speaking of drinks, the beer selection is solid, the wine list won't make sommeliers weep, and the cocktails are crafted by bartenders who understand that a mojito shouldn't taste like mouthwash. They've even managed to figure out contactless payment, dragging themselves firmly into the 21st century.

Located tantalizingly close to Wimbledon station, the Prince of Wales in London has become something I never expected - a pub I actually want to return to. The paid street parking situation is typically London (read: mildly infuriating), but the proximity to public transport makes up for it.

For those keeping score at home: yes, you can make reservations (do so for weekend evenings unless you enjoy standing around looking hopeful). Yes, they do takeout, though why you'd want pub food to go is beyond me. And yes, I'm genuinely recommending the Prince of Wales in London, despite my better judgment. Sometimes a place comes along that forces even the most hardened critic to lay down their sword. Just don't tell them I sent you - I have a reputation to maintain.