The Chequers

Just what London needs - another pub named The Chequers. Because apparently, the city's other 47 establishments bearing that oh-so-original moniker weren't quite enough. I approached this particular incarnation in London's pub landscape with the enthusiasm of a cat being dragged to a bath, fully prepared to file it under "Generic British Boozer #384." But like that rare moment when your ex actually apologizes, The Chequers managed to catch me off guard.

Let's address the elephant in the room - yes, it's a pub that serves food, joining the approximately 18,472 other London establishments making that same claim. But here's where things get interesting, and I hate myself a little for admitting this: they're actually doing it rather well. The tandoori sea bream (yes, you read that correctly) is the kind of surprise you'd expect from a proper restaurant, not a place where you can simultaneously watch Arsenal disappoint their fans on five different screens.

The interior does that carefully calculated "we're casual but we actually spent a fortune making it look this effortlessly worn" thing that normally makes my eyes roll so hard they risk getting stuck. But damn it if it doesn't work here. The wooden beams are actually old enough to have witnessed several monarchs' worth of bad decisions, and the lighting manages to make everyone look good without requiring you to squint at the menu like you're trying to decode ancient hieroglyphics.

Speaking of menus, they've somehow managed to thread the needle between "pub grub greatest hits" and "we own a sous vide machine and we're not afraid to use it." The fish and chips - that eternal litmus test of pub competency - emerges from the kitchen with a crackling batter that actually stays crispy longer than it takes to Instagram it. Yes, sometimes the chips err on the softer side, but after a few pints, who's really counting their chip crunch ratios?

The prices sit in that sweet spot where you can't quite call it a bargain, but you also don't need to remortgage your house for a round of drinks and dinner. It's the kind of place where you start with "just one quick drink" and somehow end up three hours later, contemplating the meaning of life over their surprisingly decent king prawns.

What really gets me - and I'm gritting my teeth as I type this - is the staff. In an era where genuine hospitality often feels as rare as a reasonable London rent, the team here manages to be actually, legitimately friendly without it feeling like they're auditioning for a role in a West End musical. They remember regular faces, make solid drink recommendations, and somehow maintain their sanity even during football matches when the place transforms into a heaving mass of tribal chanting and questionable referee commentary.

The outdoor seating area isn't going to win any design awards, but it does its job with more dignity than most London pub gardens, which often feel like smoking areas with delusions of grandeur. They've managed to create a space where you can actually hold a conversation without having to communicate in sign language over the bass line from the pub next door.

For those living in the digital age (all of us, unfortunately), they've embraced modern convenience without sacrificing their soul to the ghost of contactless payments past. You can pay with your phone, order delivery if you're feeling particularly hermit-like, or even get takeaway without being made to feel like you're somehow betraying the sacred pub tradition of drinking on-premise.

Look, I didn't want to like The Chequers. I walked in armed with enough cynicism to power a small city. But like that friend who keeps dating people who are "different this time" and finally, miraculously, finds one who actually is, I have to concede defeat. This London pub has managed to be both a proper local and a genuinely good venue for food and drinks, without disappearing up its own craft beer selection in the process.

If you must know - and I'm only saying this because journalistic integrity demands it - The Chequers is worth your time. Go for the surprisingly good food, stay for the atmosphere that somehow manages to be both contemporary and authentic, and return because, despite your best efforts to maintain your jaded London attitude, you'll probably find yourself thinking about those prawns at odd moments of the day. Just don't tell them I sent you. I have a reputation to maintain.