The Flowerpot Walthamstow

Just what Walthamstow needed - another pub with delusions of grandeur. The Flowerpot London promises to be yet another "proper local" in a city drowning in establishments claiming the same tired credentials. I approached with the enthusiasm of a cat being dragged to the vet, fully prepared to add it to my mental list of London's mediocre watering holes.

But damn it all if The Flowerpot Walthamstow didn't catch me off guard like a surprisingly good blind date.

Let's start with the obvious - it's a pub that actually remembers what pubs are supposed to be. Not one of those sterile, Instagram-ready spaces where the closest thing to character is a neon sign screaming "Good Vibes Only." The Flowerpot in London's increasingly hip E17 has somehow managed to maintain that elusive balance between "proper boozer" and "place you wouldn't mind bringing your slightly judgmental out-of-town friends to."

The beer selection, I grudgingly admit, is impressive enough to make a craft beer snob shut up for five blessed minutes. And while I typically approach pub food with the same caution as a bomb disposal expert approaches a suspicious package, their German hotdogs (yes, in a London pub - the audacity) are surprisingly... legitimate. The currywurst sauce isn't some sad approximation mixed up in the back from ketchup and curry powder purchased from Tesco. It's the real deal, and at a fiver, it's the kind of value that makes you wonder if they've made a pricing error.

Then there's their "magic dust" chips. I rolled my eyes so hard at the name I nearly gave myself a headache, but whatever unholy combination of seasonings they're using should probably be regulated by the government. They're addictive in a way that makes you forget you're technically eating at a pub in Walthamstow.

The Sunday roast - and I can't believe I'm writing this - is actually worth crawling out of your hangover cave for. The roast potatoes are the kind that make you want to interrogate the kitchen staff about their methods. Crispy exterior, fluffy interior - the holy grail of roasties that most places promise but rarely deliver.

The space itself manages to thread the needle between "traditional London pub" and "place that's actually been cleaned this decade." There's live music that doesn't make you want to stick forks in your ears, and they're dog-friendly without letting the place turn into a canine social club. The outdoor seating area exists in that sweet spot between "beer garden" and "car park with aspirations."

What's particularly infuriating is the pricing. In an era where London pubs seem to think charging West End prices in Zone 3 is perfectly acceptable, The Flowerpot Walthamstow maintains surprisingly reasonable rates. It's the kind of place where you can order a round without having to remortgage your house, which in contemporary London feels almost revolutionary.

The payment system has dragged itself into the 21st century - they take cards, contactless, and yes, even actual cash for those still living in 2010. The staff manage to be friendly without that forced, corporate-mandated cheerfulness that makes you want to scream.

For sports fans, they show the matches without letting it dominate the entire atmosphere, which is a miraculous feat in itself. You can actually have a conversation during a game without having to communicate entirely in hand signals.

Look, I didn't want to like The Flowerpot London. It goes against every cynical bone in my body to admit that a pub in Walthamstow could get so many things right. But here we are. If you're in E17 and in need of a proper pub experience - one that reminds you why British pubs became institutions in the first place - you could do far, far worse than The Flowerpot. And yes, that physically pained me to write.

Go for the beer, stay for the surprisingly good food, and accept that sometimes, just sometimes, places can exceed your carefully cultivated low expectations. Just don't tell them I sent you. I have a reputation to maintain.