The Adam & Eve

Just what East London needed - another historic pub trying to balance its Victorian charm with craft beer pretensions. The Adam & Eve in London's Homerton district wants us to believe it's both a proper boozer and a gastropub destination. I approached with the customary skepticism reserved for establishments claiming to bridge this particular divide.

Let's address the elephant in the room: this 1915 building (though the site's been serving pints since 1735) is undeniably gorgeous. The kind of architectural eye-candy that makes you pause mid-eye-roll and actually look up. Detailed stonework, stained glass that would make a cathedral blush, and enough original woodwork to make a carpenter weep. It's almost annoying how photogenic it is.

I wanted to hate the central U-shaped bar with its carefully curated beer selection. Really, I did. But watching the staff navigate it with surprising efficiency while pulling everything from familiar lagers to local craft concoctions, I found my cynicism beginning to crack. The Cruzcampo comes at London prices that won't make your wallet sob uncontrollably - a rare mercy in these inflationary times.

The interior is what would happen if a Victorian time traveler attempted to design the perfect pub after a particularly vivid fever dream. Leaded window partitions create intimate nooks without feeling claustrophobic. The raised seating area's stained glass panels cast Instagram-worthy light patterns that even I, a hardened critic, had to admit were rather fetching. There's even an "L" shaped pool table lurking in the back like some geometric rebel.

Now, about that beer garden. It's trying very hard to be "tropical," which should be ridiculous in East London, but somehow pulls it off without descending into complete parody. It's actually... pleasant. There, I said it. Perfect for those three days of British summer when outdoor drinking doesn't require thermal underwear.

The food situation has been a rollercoaster of residencies that would give a theme park engineer vertigo. Currently, it's Greek cuisine (because of course it is - we're in London, where every pub must now serve something more exotic than scotch eggs). The Sunday roasts have garnered both passionate defenders and vocal critics, much like any political debate in a proper pub. Portion sizes can be questionable - I've seen aubergine dishes that looked more like garnishes with delusions of grandeur.

The crowd is exactly what you'd expect in this corner of London - young professionals pretending they discovered the place, locals who've been drinking here since before it was cool, and football fans who don't care about either camp as long as the match is showing on the screens. Somehow, this awkward social alchemy works.

Service can swing between warmly welcoming and bracingly brusque, often within the same visit. It's almost impressive how quickly staff can transition from friendly banter to looking at you like you've asked them to explain quantum physics while juggling flaming chainsaws. But isn't that part of the authentic London pub experience?

For those keeping score at home: yes, they take cards (welcome to the 21st century), dogs are welcome (often better behaved than their owners), and there's enough space for groups (assuming you can convince your friends to venture to Homerton). The nearest tube station is right there, which means you have no excuse not to visit, much as I hate to admit it.

Look, The Adam & Eve in London isn't perfect. It's trying to be too many things to too many people - historic pub, sports bar, gastro destination, craft beer haven. The thing is, against all odds and my better judgment, it mostly succeeds. You'll find me there on match days, tucked away in one of those Victorian nooks, pretending I'm only there ironically while secretly enjoying every minute. Just don't tell anyone I sent you. I have a reputation to maintain.