The Black Lion Pub

Just what London needs - another historic pub claiming some tenuous connection to Dick Turpin. The Black Lion Pub in London's Plaistow district practically screams "we're authentic!" with its Tudor beams and tales of highwaymen stabling their horses. Eye roll. But here's the truly irritating part: it's actually rather good.

I arrived determined to hate it. Five minutes from Plaistow station, this 600-year-old establishment has weathered more renovations than a celebrity's face, with rebuilds in 1747 and 1875. The cynic in me expected another soulless "traditional" pub trading purely on its age. Instead, I found something that made me question my professional jadedness.

Let's talk about the space, shall we? The Black Lion Pub splits itself between two bars, and whoever designed it clearly knew what they were doing, much to my chagrin. The main bar stretches long enough to accommodate both the after-work crowd and the football faithful without devolving into a shoving match. The exposed brick walls and those admittedly charming Tudor beams make it feel lived-in rather than manufactured - a rare feat in London's increasingly Instagram-ready pub scene.

The smaller back bar is where they really get you. It's cozy without being claustrophobic, with red carpeting and banquettes that invite you to sink in and stay awhile. I hate that I love it. The separate entrance is a nice touch, allowing you to avoid the main bar's bustle when you're in a more contemplative drinking mood.

Speaking of drinking - the beer selection is surprisingly decent for a place that could probably coast on location and history alone. Two rotating cask ales keep things interesting, and the mainstream options are well-kept. The pints are pulled with care, and prices hover around the London average, which these days counts as a minor miracle. Yes, you'll pay more than in some northern pub, but this is London, darling - adjust your expectations accordingly.

What truly sets The Black Lion apart - and I can't believe I'm saying this - is its preservation of genuine pub culture. The memorabilia isn't the usual dusty tat thrown up to create artificial atmosphere. Photos of Bobby Moore, Warren Mitchell, and Kenny Lynch feel organic, telling stories of the pub's connection to West Ham's glory days. It's a football pub that doesn't beat you over the head with its football credentials.

The outdoor space deserves mention, if only because London pubs with decent beer gardens are rarer than an affordable zone 1 flat. The back garden offers plenty of seating, some of it covered - because this is England, and rain is less a weather condition than a state of being. It's thoughtfully arranged to accommodate both smokers and those who prefer their air unperfumed.

Perhaps most surprising is the staff's attitude. In an era where genuine hospitality often feels as extinct as the dodo, the team here manages to be welcoming without the artificial cheeriness that makes me want to flee to the nearest self-service bar. They know their regulars, sure, but even first-timers get treated like they might actually come back.

Dogs are welcome, the TVs show sports without dominating the atmosphere, and there's free parking - a combination so practical it's almost suspicious in its competence. The pub even manages to maintain that delicate balance between being good for groups and still comfortable for solo drinkers, which is harder than getting a seat on the Central Line at rush hour.

Look, I didn't want to like The Black Lion Pub. It goes against everything my cynical nature holds dear to admit that a historic London pub actually lives up to its history. But here we are. If you're in Plaistow, or even if you're not, it's worth the trip. Just don't tell them I sent you - I have a reputation to maintain. And for heaven's sake, try the Guinness - they pour it properly, which in London is about as rare as a reasonable rent increase.