The Castle

Just what London needs - another pub calling itself The Castle. Because apparently, we're running desperately short of establishments named after medieval fortifications in this city. I stumbled into The Castle London on what I'd planned to be a quick pint, fully prepared to add it to my mental list of forgettable watering holes. Spoiler alert: I'm still slightly annoyed about how wrong I was.

Let's address the elephant in the room - it's yet another Victorian-era pub that's had a gentle modernization, walking that precarious tightrope between "preserved character" and "actually functional plumbing." But damn it if they haven't somehow managed to get it right. The Castle London has pulled off that rare feat of maintaining its historical charm while quietly upgrading everything that actually matters.

The first crack in my cynical armor appeared when the staff didn't respond to my deliberately complicated drink order with the usual dead-eyed stare. Instead, the bartender actually knew what he was talking about, offering suggestions that made me suspicious he might actually care about his craft. The nerve of some people, being good at their jobs.

I hadn't planned on eating, but the aroma wafting from the kitchen was performing some sort of cruel psychological warfare on my resolve. The fish and chips - that most basic of pub staples that so many places somehow manage to butcher - emerged crispy, flaky, and infuriatingly perfect. The mushy peas (a dish that usually looks like something you'd find in a baby's nappy) were somehow elevated to something I'd actually willingly eat again.

The steak and ale pie arrived next, because apparently, I'd lost all self-control at this point. The pastry actually shattered satisfyingly under my fork instead of having the consistency of wet cardboard - a shocking departure from pub norm. The meat inside was tender enough to cut with a spoon, swimming in a gravy rich enough to make a French chef grudgingly nod in approval.

What's particularly vexing is the price point. It's not cheap - this isn't your local Wetherspoons - but it's not the usual London daylight robbery either. You're paying mid-range prices for what honestly tastes like higher-end fare. It's the sort of value proposition that makes you question if you've somehow wandered into an alternate dimension where London publicans have developed a conscience.

The space itself deserves mention, though I'm loathe to admit it. They've maintained enough of the original features to keep the heritage brigade happy while somehow making it comfortable enough for actual humans to enjoy. The lighting is dim enough to be atmospheric but bright enough that you can actually read the menu without employing your phone's torch - a concept that seems to elude many London establishments.

Live music appears on select evenings, and unlike most pub entertainment, it doesn't make you want to flee immediately. They've even managed to make it dog-friendly without the place smelling like a kennel - another minor miracle in the London pub scene.

What really gets under my skin is how they've managed to create an atmosphere that works for both locals and tourists. The Castle London somehow bridges that gap between authentic British pub and accessible venue for visitors who might not know their bitter from their lager. It's inclusive without being pandering, traditional without being stuffy.

The final insult? They take reservations. In London. For a pub. And they actually honor them, with a proper table and everything. The sheer audacity of running an efficient operation in a city where chaos is usually the default setting is almost offensive.

Look, I didn't want to like The Castle London. I really didn't. But if you're going to insist on serving excellent food, maintaining a solid drink selection, employing competent staff, and creating an atmosphere that makes you want to linger, well, you're just playing dirty. Fine. Go there. See if I care. Just save me a table by the fireplace - I'll be the one in the corner, grudgingly enjoying every minute of it.