The Duke of Wellington

Just what London needs - another pub named after a historical figure who probably never darkened its doorstep. The Duke of Wellington in Notting Hill sits smugly among the Pinterest-worthy pastel townhouses, beckoning tourists with its promise of "authentic British pub experience." I approached with the enthusiasm of a cat being taken to the vet.

But damn it all if this place hasn't wormed its way into my reluctantly softening heart. Nestled along the chaos of Portobello Road, The Duke of Wellington manages to pull off that increasingly rare feat: being a proper London pub that hasn't sacrificed its soul to Instagram aesthetics or gastropub pretensions.

The first crack in my cynical armor appeared when I noticed the distinct absence of avocado toast dominating every table (though yes, they do serve it, and yes, it's annoyingly good). Instead, the menu reads like something your imaginary British grandmother might have written - if she'd actually known how to cook and had a slight flair for the modern.

Their Sunday roast - that battleground where so many London pubs go to die - deserves particular mention. The Yorkshire puddings rise like architectural masterpieces, and the roast potatoes actually crack when forked (a basic achievement that somehow eludes 90% of London's pub kitchens). The gravy, rich enough to make a French chef grudgingly nod, arrives in quantities that suggest they're not counting pennies in the kitchen.

The Peacock Room upstairs initially had me rolling my eyes at its predictably posh name, but the space manages to be both elegant and comfortable - like a wealthy aunt's sitting room where you're actually allowed to put your feet up. The fact that you can usually snag a table without booking your firstborn child's birthday party in advance is refreshingly civilized.

Let's talk about the beer selection, shall we? While other London pubs have gone full craft-brewery-explosion, The Duke of Wellington maintains a sensible balance between "beer your grandfather would recognize" and "something with notes of artisanal pencil shavings." The staff actually know their ales, and better yet, they can recommend one without making you feel like you're defending a doctoral thesis in hop cultivation.

The prices won't make you gasp in horror or check your account balance mid-meal - a remarkable achievement for Notting Hill, where even pigeons expect a tip. It's firmly in the "reasonable for London" category, which is to say it's still daylight robbery anywhere north of Watford, but you won't need to sell a kidney for a pie and a pint.

Dog-friendly without becoming a canine social club, group-friendly without devolving into a rugby scrum, and blessed with outdoor seating that doesn't require sharing your personal space with passing buses - it's as if someone actually thought about what makes a pub pleasant rather than just ticking boxes on a franchise checklist.

The payment system has dragged itself into the 21st century (contactless, cards, and yes, they still accept that quaint paper stuff called cash), and the bathrooms are private - a small mercy that anyone who's experienced London pub facilities will appreciate, though they could occasionally use a more vigorous acquaintance with cleaning products.

What really sets The Duke of Wellington apart from London's endless parade of pubs is its staff's apparent radical notion that hospitality includes actual hospitality. Service manages to hit that sweet spot between attentive and hovering, with none of the traditional British pub standoffishness that tourists mistake for charm.

Located mere steps from the Portobello Road Market's perpetual carnival of vintage trinkets and tourist tat, The Duke of Wellington provides a sanctuary of relative sanity. It's the kind of place where locals actually drink - perhaps the highest praise one can give a London pub in a tourist-heavy area.

Fine, I admit it. The Duke of Wellington has earned its place among London's better pubs. Book a table, order a pint, and prepare to join the ranks of the pleasantly surprised. Just don't tell them I sent you - I have a reputation for cynicism to maintain.