The Duke of Wellington

Another gastropub in London. How terribly original. The Duke of Wellington sits there on its corner, positively oozing that carefully curated "we're not trying too hard" aesthetic that seems to be spreading through the city like a particularly stubborn strain of sourdough starter. And yet, against my better judgment and years of cultivated cynicism, I found myself not entirely hating it.

Let's address the elephant in the room - yes, The Duke of Wellington in London is doing that whole "elevated pub fare" thing that every establishment with a blackboard and Edison bulbs seems compelled to attempt these days. But here's the truly irritating part: they're actually pulling it off.

The Sunday roast, which I approached with the skepticism usually reserved for cryptocurrency investments, turned out to be something of a revelation. The lamb (when available) achieves that mythical balance between proper British tradition and actually being, well, good. The cauliflower cheese - typically the soggy afterthought of many a pub lunch - deserves its own sonnet. It's almost offensive how perfectly they've executed it.

Their beer selection manages to be interesting without crossing into that tedious craft beer territory where every pint comes with a dissertation on hop varieties. The Purity Mad Goose, in particular, is kept well enough to make you forget about the marginally surly bar staff. Though honestly, in London, a slightly surly bartender feels more authentic than one of those aggressively cheerful types.

The space itself plays that familiar gastropub symphony - exposed brick, wooden tables just distressed enough to seem authentic, lighting that makes everyone look like they're starring in their own BBC drama. But somehow, The Duke of Wellington wears it well, like that one friend who can pull off a vintage jacket without looking like they're trying too hard.

They've done something rather clever with the outdoor seating, creating a space that somehow remains pleasant even when London decides to London (read: rain). The dog-friendly policy means you'll occasionally share your space with four-legged patrons, which, depending on your disposition, is either a charming touch or mild inconvenience. I found myself, much to my chagrin, in the former camp.

The menu strikes that infuriating balance between tradition and innovation. Their tartare and stracciatella with tomatoes might sound pretentious on paper, but they deliver with enough confidence to silence even the most hardened critic. Yes, the portions could be more generous for the price point, but this is London - we're all used to paying more for less at this point, aren't we?

What's particularly vexing is how they've managed to make the vegetarian options actually worth ordering. The vegetarian Wellington isn't just a sad afterthought for your plant-based friend - it's legitimately good enough to make meat-eaters question their choices. It's honestly quite inconsiderate of them to be this competent across the board.

The upstairs private room has hosted everything from wedding receptions to corporate events, managing to maintain that delicate balance between "special occasion" and "we're still technically in a pub." The staff handles these events with surprising grace, though you might need to exercise some patience during busier services.

For those keeping score: yes, they take cards (including contactless), no, there's no free parking (this is London, what did you expect?), and yes, you can make reservations - which, given their popularity, you probably should.

Here's the truly annoying part: The Duke of Wellington in London has managed to become exactly what it set out to be - a proper London pub that serves proper food while maintaining proper pub credentials. It sits comfortably in that sweet spot between "local boozer" and "destination dining" that so many venues aim for and so few achieve.

So, go ahead. Book a table at The Duke of Wellington. Order the roast, or the tartare, or that irritatingly good vegetarian Wellington. Just don't blame me when you find yourself becoming one of those people who has a "regular pub." I certainly won't admit to how often I find myself there, nursing a perfectly kept pint and begrudgingly enjoying every minute of it.