The Cleveland Arms

Just what London needs - another gastropub claiming to elevate the humble neighborhood watering hole. The Cleveland Arms in Paddington had me rolling my eyes before I even crossed the threshold. Another victim of the great London pub gentrification, I thought, where traditional charm goes to die under the weight of small plates and natural wines.

I was prepared to hate everything about it. The carefully curated vintage fixtures, the requisite dog-friendly policy (because heaven forbid Londoners leave their precious pooches at home), the inevitable "modern British" menu that's about as British as Silicon Valley. But The Cleveland Arms, damn their expertly-restored Victorian tiles, started to wear down my cynicism almost immediately.

Let's talk about that Chicken Kiev, because apparently everyone else in W2 already is. I ordered it purely to be contrary, ready to pen a scathing comparison to the frozen versions that sustained me through university. Instead, I found myself cutting into what might be the most perfectly executed Kiev in London - and believe me, I've hate-tested plenty. The garlic butter actually stays put instead of creating a tablecloth-ruining explosion, and the chicken remains impossibly juicy. It's the kind of dish that makes you momentarily forget your professional obligation to find fault.

The downstairs dining room should be a claustrophobic nightmare, but somehow manages to feel like you've discovered a secret supper club. The kitchen staff work with the precision of a Swiss watch movement, yet without the pretentious theater that plagues so many open kitchens. You can actually watch them work without feeling like you're at some sort of culinary performance art installation.

The Sunday roast warrants its own paragraph, if only because it's restored my faith in the institution. The pork comes with crackling that actually crackles (revolutionary, I know), and Yorkshire puddings that rise with the dramatic flair of a West End musical. The gravy - and I can't believe I'm writing this with genuine enthusiasm - tastes like it's been simmering since the pub first opened its doors.

Upstairs, the bar area maintains that delicate balance between "actually popular" and "sardines would feel claustrophobic." Yes, you might wait for a drink during peak hours, but the staff somehow manage to keep their genuine warmth even when three-deep at the bar. It's the kind of place where both the regular nursing his pint and the couple splitting a bottle of Burgundy feel equally at home.

The prices sit squarely in the "reasonable for London, outrageous for anywhere else" category. But considering the quality of what's coming out of that kitchen, I'm finding it harder than I'd like to complain about the cost. Main courses hover around the price of a Zone 1 tube fare, and the Sunday roast won't require a second mortgage - just a healthy appetite and, ideally, a reservation.

Speaking of reservations, you'll want one. The Cleveland Arms has developed an irritatingly justified reputation that keeps its tables full, especially for Sunday lunch. The booking system actually works though, which in London's hospitality scene is about as rare as a properly poured pint.

Let's address the amenities because they've somehow managed to tick all the boxes without feeling like they're ticking boxes. Dogs are welcome but don't dominate. The outdoor seating works for both summer evenings and winter smokers. They take cards, do contactless, and - praise be - haven't succumbed to the QR code menu plague that's infected half of London's pubs.

Situated in a corner of Paddington that still feels like actual London rather than a tourist brochure version of it, The Cleveland Arms has accomplished something I thought impossible: it's a modernized pub that hasn't lost its soul in the process. The food is remarkable without being pretentious, the atmosphere buzzing without being overwhelming, and the service genuine without being cloying.

Book a table. Go for the Sunday roast, stay for the Kiev, and accept, as I finally have, that sometimes these places actually deserve their reputation. Just don't tell them I said that - I have a cynical critic's reputation to maintain.