The Burlington Arms

Just what London needs - another pub claiming to be a proper British drinking establishment. The Burlington Arms in London's Mayfair district stands among its polished neighbors like that one uncle who still wears 1970s suits but somehow pulls it off. I wanted to hate it. I really did.

Let's address the elephant in the room - its location practically begs for pretension, nestled between the bespoke tailors of Savile Row and the designer boutiques of New Bond Street. The kind of spot where you'd expect to find bankers comparing yacht sizes over £25 gin and tonics. And yet...

There's something infuriatingly charming about the place. The Burlington Arms has managed to maintain that increasingly rare quality of actually feeling like a pub rather than a Pinterest board's interpretation of one. The interior hits you with all the subtlety of your grandmother's living room - worn leather seats, dark wood paneling, and enough brass fixtures to make a Victorian proud. It shouldn't work, but damn it, it does.

The beer selection, I must begrudgingly admit, is properly maintained. The pints arrive at the correct temperature (a miracle in central London these days) and with an appropriate head - not the sad, flat affairs you get at those chrome-and-concrete establishments trying to reinvent the wheel. They've even managed to keep their prices merely painful rather than outrageous, though that's faint praise in Mayfair.

The food menu reads like a greatest hits of pub classics, which initially made me roll my eyes so hard I could see my own brain. But then the Scotch eggs arrived. Now, I've eaten enough mediocre Scotch eggs to last several lifetimes, but these... these beautiful spheres of properly seasoned sausage meat, wrapped around eggs with yolks that maintain that perfect balance between runny and set... Well, let's just say I ordered a second round. The sausages with mustard, too, display an attention to detail that's becoming embarrassingly rare in London's pub scene.

Service manages to hit that sweet spot between attentive and overbearing - a feat that deserves recognition in itself. The staff actually seem to understand they're working in a pub, not a Michelin-starred establishment or a fast-food joint. They know their beers, can recommend a decent wine (yes, I tested them), and maintain that delicate balance of friendly banter without becoming your new best friend.

The outdoor seating area, while not exactly a tropical paradise, offers a decent escape from the interior when London's weather decides to behave. It's particularly pleasant during those three days of summer we get each year, though they've sensibly provided heaters for the other 362 days.

What truly sets The Burlington Arms apart - and I can't believe I'm saying this - is its steadfast refusal to "modernize" itself into oblivion. While other London pubs frantically install Instagram walls and serve drinks in mason jars, this place has stood its ground. The dogs are welcome, the locals are actual locals (as local as you can be in Mayfair), and the TV only appears during major sporting events.

For those planning a visit (and yes, I'm actually recommending you do), you'll find it perfectly positioned for a post-shopping respite or an escape from the tourist chaos of Regent Street. The Burlington Arms accepts cards (including contactless), though I've seen the odd regular still settling up with cash like it's 1985. They take bookings for groups, which is advisable during peak hours unless you enjoy standing around clutching your pint like a lost tourist.

Look, I didn't want to like The Burlington Arms. It would have been easier to dismiss it as another overpriced London pub trading on location alone. But somehow, this stubbornly traditional establishment has managed to preserve everything that makes a British pub worth visiting while maintaining standards that keep it relevant. Go there. Have a pint. Order the Scotch eggs. Just don't tell them I sent you - I have a reputation to maintain.