The Cavendish Pub, Marylebone

Just what Marylebone needed - another supposedly upscale pub trying to convince London's well-heeled that paying triple the price for a Sunday roast is somehow justified. The Cavendish Pub in London's poshest village wannabe had me rolling my eyes before I even crossed the threshold. Another gastropub serving "elevated" classics? Please. We've all seen this story before, and it usually ends with disappointed tourists and smug locals who "knew it when."

But damn it all if The Cavendish hasn't managed to get under my cynical skin. Perhaps it was the moment they served me a perfectly crafted Negroni that didn't require a small bank loan, or maybe it was watching the staff fuss over a regular's golden retriever with genuine affection rather than the forced cooing you usually encounter at "dog-friendly" establishments. Either way, my carefully constructed wall of skepticism began showing dangerous cracks.

Let's address the elephant in the room - yes, the prices are firmly in the "expense account or special occasion" territory. The Sunday roast will set you back anywhere from £25 to £31, depending on your choice of meat, and that's before you've even glanced at the wine list. But here's the truly irritating part: it's actually worth it. The beef arrives exactly as requested (a rarity in London these days), the Yorkshire pudding achieves that perfect balance between crisp and cloud-like, and the gravy... well, let's just say it's clearly not from a packet.

The space itself manages to thread that impossible needle between traditional pub comfort and contemporary elegance without falling into the usual trap of looking like a Pinterest board come to life. The original features have been preserved without fetishizing them, and somebody actually gave thought to acoustics - you can have a conversation without shouting across the table, a concept that seems to have eluded most London venues since 2010.

What's particularly vexing is the quality of service. In an era where good hospitality seems as rare as affordable housing in Zone 1, The Cavendish's staff actually appear to enjoy their jobs. They know the menu inside out, remember regular customers' preferences, and - brace yourself - actually check on you without hovering or disappearing for hours. It's almost suspicious how competent they are.

The weekday menu deserves special mention, if only because it made me question my long-held belief that pub lunch is dead in central London. The brioche with braised ox cheeks is the kind of dish that ruins you for other food - tender enough to eat with a spoon and rich enough to justify skipping dinner. The ricotta and leek tortelloni proves that vegetarian options needn't be an afterthought, though I'm loath to admit it.

They've even managed to nail the basics - the beer selection is thoughtful rather than trying to stock every craft brewery in existence, the wine list is varied without being overwhelming, and they actually know how to keep both at the proper temperature. It's infuriating how little there is to criticize.

Situated perfectly between the Wallace Collection and Regent's Park, The Cavendish has become - much to my chagrin - something of a neighborhood institution. The outdoor seating area catches the afternoon sun in a way that makes you forget you're in central London, and the indoor space manages to accommodate both casual drinkers and proper diners without either group feeling out of place.

So here I am, reluctantly recommending The Cavendish Pub in Marylebone to anyone who values proper cooking, genuine hospitality, and an atmosphere that manages to be special without being precious. Book ahead for Sunday lunch - yes, it's actually popular enough to require planning - and prepare yourself for the uncomfortable experience of having your cynicism thoroughly undermined. Just don't tell them I sent you. I have a reputation to maintain.