The Camberwell Arms

Just what South London needed - another gastropub with delusions of grandeur. The Camberwell Arms in London sits there on Camberwell Church Street, smugly traditional from the outside, daring you to be impressed by yet another "elevated pub experience." I rolled my eyes so hard they nearly got stuck when a friend insisted we visit. But damn it all to hell if this place hasn't wormed its way into my reluctant affections.

Let's address the elephant in the room: yes, it's one of those pubs that thinks it's a restaurant. The kind where the menu changes daily (how exhaustingly precious) and the staff actually know what they're talking about (the nerve). But here's the thing - they pull it off with an authenticity that makes me want to throw my criticism notebook in the Thames.

The first crack in my cynical armor appeared with their scotch bonnet and pork belly fat on toast. It's the kind of dish that sounds like it was conceived during a particularly pretentious brainstorming session, but turns out to be a revelation that makes you question everything you thought you knew about toast toppings. It's aggressively flavorful without being a show-off about it.

Their approach to a Sunday roast deserves particular mention, if only because it manages to justify its above-average price tag without making you feel like you're being mugged. They do this clever thing where the roasts are served for two to share, which initially seemed like a marketing gimmick but actually results in better-quality meat and proper Yorkshire puddings that haven't been sitting under a heat lamp since breakfast.

The beer selection rotates frequently enough to keep the beard-stroking craft ale enthusiasts happy, but they haven't forgotten they're still technically a pub. You can get a properly pulled pint without having to endure a 15-minute dissertation on hop varieties. The wine list is thoughtfully curated, which is code for "you'll pay a bit more than you'd like, but at least it won't give you a headache."

What really gets under my skin is how they've managed to maintain that delicate balance between pub comfort and restaurant finesse. The wooden tables are appropriately worn, the lighting is dim enough to be flattering but bright enough to actually read the menu, and the staff somehow make you feel welcome whether you're in for a quick pint or settling in for a three-course meal.

The kitchen seems pathologically incapable of serving mediocre food. Their heirloom tomato salad made me briefly consider becoming one of those insufferable people who grow their own vegetables. The beef pie is the kind of thing that makes you want to hug the chef, even though such behavior would probably get you thrown out. And the potatoes - good lord, the potatoes. They've clearly made some sort of dark pact with the devil of roast spuds.

Service manages to hit that sweet spot between attentive and overbearing. They'll help you navigate the menu without making you feel like an idiot, and they actually seem to care whether you're enjoying yourself. It's unsettling how genuine it feels.

Yes, you'll pay more than your local boozer charges. But unlike many of London's gastropubs that seem to price their menu based on postcode rather than quality, The Camberwell Arms actually delivers value for money. The portions are generous without being grotesque, and the quality consistently justifies the cost.

Look, I didn't want to like The Camberwell Arms. I wanted to dismiss it as another pretentious London pub that's forgotten its roots in pursuit of the perfect small plate. But they've done something unforgivable - they've created a place that actually lives up to its reputation. The food is outstanding, the atmosphere strikes the right balance, and even the most hardened cynic (hello) has to admit it's worth crossing London for.

So fine, you win, Camberwell Arms. Book a table. Go for the Sunday roast if you can get in (good luck), or try their regular menu which is anything but regular. Just don't blame me when you find yourself becoming one of those irritating people who won't shut up about their new favorite pub in London. I've become one, and I hate myself for it.