The Duke of Deptford

Just what Deptford needed - another pub with pretensions of grandeur. The Duke of Deptford in London stands there on the corner, all exposed brick and Edison bulbs, practically begging to be dismissed as yet another attempt to gentrify SE8. I'll admit, I rolled my eyes so hard they nearly got stuck when I first pushed open that heavy wooden door, already composing the scathing review in my head.

But damn it all if this place hasn't managed to get under my skin.

Perhaps it was the moment the bartender, noticing my grimace at an admittedly over-strong margarita, actually came out to the patio to offer a replacement. In most London pubs, you'd sooner see the Queen herself pulling pints than experience that level of service. Or maybe it was the pizza - and I hate myself a little for typing this - that made me pause mid-snark.

Let's talk about that pizza, shall we? Because The Duke of Deptford has somehow managed to create what might be the most annoying thing of all: a legitimately excellent pizza in a London pub. The audacity. The pepperoni version, in particular, is the kind of thing that makes you question every life choice that led you to not discovering it sooner. It's not trying to be Neapolitan, thank god - we have enough of those precious artisanal joints. Instead, it's just... proper. The kind of pizza that makes you forget you're in a pub in South East London.

The space itself is a study in contradictions, much like my feelings about it. From the outside, it's understated enough to walk past without a second glance - which, frankly, I did for months. Inside, though, it opens up like Mary Poppins' handbag, revealing cozy nooks and surprisingly spacious seating areas. They've managed to thread that impossibly fine needle between "pub that serves food" and "restaurant with a decent bar," and I'm irritated by how well they've done it.

The Sunday roast situation deserves its own paragraph, if only because it forces me to dispense more grudging praise. The lamb, swimming in proper gravy (not that weak jus nonsense that's plaguing gastropubs these days) comes with mint sauce that tastes like someone's nan actually made it. They even do vegetarian options that don't feel like an afterthought - a rare feat in London pub kitchens.

Live music appears occasionally, though mercifully not at eardrum-shattering volumes. The dog-friendly policy means you might have to share space with the occasional four-legged patron, but they're usually better behaved than the humans around closing time. There's outdoor seating for those three days of summer London gets, and the paid street parking situation is about as good as you can expect in this part of town (which is to say, bring comfortable walking shoes).

The prices sit squarely in the "I can't really complain but I'm going to try anyway" category. The pizza and pint deals are actually decent value, which pains me to report. You can pay by card, phone, or interpretive dance (okay, maybe not the last one), and they take reservations - though walk-ins are usually fine unless it's Sunday roast time.

Look, I didn't want to like The Duke of Deptford. I really didn't. London has enough pubs trying to be all things to all people. But somehow, this place has managed to create something that actually works - a proper local that serves food worth crossing postcodes for, with staff who seem to genuinely give a damn. It's the kind of place where you can have a quiet pint alone or bring your entire extended family for Sunday lunch, and neither scenario feels wrong.

Fine. You win, Duke of Deptford. You've earned your place in the neighborhood. Just don't let it go to your head - we've got enough of that in London already. Book a table, try the pizza, and prepare to be annoyingly impressed. Just don't blame me when it becomes your new local. I tried to resist too.