The Bolingbroke

Just what London needs - another gastropub masquerading as the savior of British cuisine. The Bolingbroke in Battersea sits there, all smug with its gleaming windows and chalk-scrawled specials board, practically begging passersby to notice how it's not like other pubs. And yet, despite my best efforts to maintain my carefully cultivated cynicism, I find myself returning. Repeatedly. Damn it.

Let's address the elephant in the room: yes, The Bolingbroke is one of those London establishments that straddles the line between proper boozer and dinner destination, inevitably disappointing purists of both camps. But here's the thing - they actually pull it off with an irritating level of competence.

The Sunday roast, which I approached with the skepticism it deserves (because honestly, how many "best Sunday roasts in London" can there possibly be?), turned out to be... well, magnificent. The beef arrives properly pink, the Yorkshire puddings display that perfect combination of crisp edges and soft center that makes you wonder if they've got someone's grandmother held hostage in the kitchen. The roast potatoes - and I can't believe I'm writing this - actually taste like roast potatoes rather than sad, oil-logged alternatives that plague lesser establishments.

During the week, The Bolingbroke transforms into something equally compelling. The menu changes frequently enough to keep things interesting without venturing into try-hard territory. Their fish dishes, when they get them right (which is frustratingly often), remind you why people still bother with proper cooking instead of just throwing everything into an air fryer and hoping for the best.

The wine list deserves special mention, if only because it manages to include options that won't require a second mortgage while still offering something for the Wandsworth wine snobs who inevitably populate the place. The bar staff actually know their stuff, which is both surprising and somewhat annoying - it's harder to maintain one's professional disapproval when the bartender can intelligently discuss the merits of different gin producers.

Let's talk about the space itself. The high ceilings and large windows flood the room with natural light, making it impossible to hide in properly moody pub shadows. The interior design walks that fine line between "pub traditional" and "Instagram-worthy" without falling too far into either camp. Even the outdoor seating area, which I fully expected to hate, provides a surprisingly pleasant spot for summer evening drinks, assuming you can snag a table among the after-work crowd.

The pricing sits firmly in the "you're paying for quality but not being absolutely rinsed" category. Main courses hover around the mark where you initially wince but then realize it's actually fair for what you're getting. The portion sizes are generous enough to satisfy without falling into the trap of American-style excess.

They've managed to create that elusive atmosphere where you can bring your parents for Sunday lunch, meet friends for after-work drinks, or have a proper date night without any scenario feeling forced. The staff maintain a level of professionalism that's warm without being overly familiar - a balance that seems increasingly rare in London's dining scene.

For families (and I say this through gritted teeth), The Bolingbroke actually works. There's a children's menu that doesn't insult anyone's intelligence, and they manage to accommodate the little ones without letting them dominate the atmosphere. Dog owners, too, will find their four-legged friends welcome, though thankfully not to the point where the place feels like a canine social club.

Here's the bottom line: The Bolingbroke represents everything I want to hate about modern London pubs - the careful curation, the studied casualness, the knowing nods to tradition while thoroughly modernizing everything. And yet, like finding out your ex has actually become a decent person, it's impossible to maintain that grudge when faced with such consistent quality. Whether you're in this corner of London by choice or chance, you'll find yourself reluctantly adding it to your list of regular haunts. Book ahead for Sunday lunch - not because I'm telling you to, but because you'll be annoyed when you can't get a table.