The Colonel Fawcett

Just what London needs - another gastropub with delusions of grandeur. The Colonel Fawcett in Camden Town sits there, all smug with its Victorian facade and promises of "elevated pub fare," as if we haven't heard that one before. I'd written it off as yet another pretender to the proper pub throne, but damn it all if this place hasn't wormed its way into my reluctant affections.

Let's address the elephant in the room - yes, The Colonel Fawcett is named after some obscure historical figure who died in London's last fatal duel. How very on-brand for a pub trying to distinguish itself from the countless other watering holes dotting Camden's landscape. Eye-roll inducing? Absolutely. Yet somehow it works, much to my chagrin.

I'll admit it - I walked in with a chip on my shoulder larger than their beer-battered cod. But then something annoying happened. The staff actually seemed to care. Not in that artificial, corporate-mandated way that makes you want to flee, but with genuine warmth that felt more like visiting a friend's house. A friend who happens to know their way around a proper pint, mind you.

The beer selection is thoughtfully curated without being pretentious about it. You won't find the bartender launching into an unsolicited 20-minute dissertation on hop varieties (thank heaven for small mercies), but they can intelligently discuss what's on tap if you're actually interested. And the prices? Well, they're London pub prices - which is to say, they'll make you wince, but not quite enough to make you leave.

Speaking of leaving, I tried to. Multiple times. But then they had to go and serve food that's actually, irritatingly good. The Sunday roast (when they haven't run out - book ahead, you've been warned) is the kind of meal that makes you temporarily forget about the existence of all other Sunday roasts. The Yorkshire puddings rise like architectural masterpieces, and the gravy... well, let's just say I've considered asking for it by the pint.

The garden is another unexpected triumph. Festooned with roses and fairy lights, it's an oasis of calm in Camden's chaos. Even on busy evenings, when the quiz night crowd spills out (Wednesdays and Fridays, if you're into that sort of thing), there's usually a quiet corner to be found. Though why they installed that wonky pool table upstairs remains a mystery worthy of their quiz nights.

They've managed to thread that impossibly fine needle between maintaining proper pub character and offering modern amenities. Yes, you can pay by card at the table (welcome to the 21st century), dogs are welcome (as they bloody well should be in any self-respecting pub), and they'll even take reservations - a godsend when you're trying to organize one of those dreaded group gatherings.

The interior strikes a balance between traditional pub coziness and contemporary comfort, though I suspect the Colonel himself might raise an eyebrow at some of the more modern touches. The original Victorian features remain, but they've been complemented by updates that don't make you feel like you're drinking in a museum.

Located just far enough from Camden's main tourist trail to maintain its sanity, The Colonel Fawcett has become - and I can't believe I'm writing this - something of a local treasure. It's the kind of place where you can bring your parents, your punk friend from Berlin, or your fussy colleague who only drinks craft beer, and they'll all find something to like. Infuriating, really.

Look, I didn't want to like The Colonel Fawcett. I really didn't. But here I am, recommending that you book a table (especially for Sunday lunch - seriously, don't just wing it), bring your dog if you have one, and settle in for what will probably be a better time than you're expecting. Just don't tell them I sent you. I have a reputation as a cynic to maintain.