The George

Just what London needed - another pub claiming to be a cut above your average boozer. The George, perched smugly on Fleet Street like it owns the place (which, given its Tudor credentials, it sort of does), is the kind of establishment that makes you want to roll your eyes. Until, irritatingly, you actually go inside.

Look, I wanted to hate it. The location opposite the Royal Courts of Justice practically begs for an influx of suited professionals spouting legal jargon while nursing overpriced pints. But The George, the infuriating overachiever, manages to be both a proper London pub and something rather special, much to my chagrin.

The interior hits you first - not with the usual sticky floors and questionable décor choices, but with actual, honest-to-goodness Tudor beams that aren't plastic reproductions ordered from some gastropub catalog. The carved wooden bar back is the kind of thing that makes architectural enthusiasts weak at the knees, while the rest of us simply appreciate having something gorgeous to stare at while waiting for our drinks.

Speaking of drinks - and I can't believe I'm saying this - they've actually got their act together. The beer selection is comprehensive without being pretentious, and the staff know their stuff without making you feel like you're attending a lecture on hop varieties. They pour a proper pint, which shouldn't be noteworthy but somehow is in central London these days.

Now, about the food. I approached their menu with the kind of skepticism usually reserved for politicians' promises, especially given their location in tourist-trap territory. The Sunday roast, however, forced me to eat my words along with every last morsel on my plate. The beef actually tastes of beef (revolutionary, I know), and the Yorkshire puddings aren't those sad, deflated affairs you usually find in London pubs.

The pricing sits squarely in the "well, this is Zone 1" territory, but at least you're getting what you pay for. It's not cheap-cheap, but it's not the daylight robbery some nearby establishments seem to specialize in. Think of it as paying historical building maintenance tax with each pint - at least that's how I justify it to myself.

Upstairs, they've managed to create a dining space that feels removed from the pub bustle without losing its soul - a feat roughly equivalent to successfully performing brain surgery while riding a unicycle. It's cozy without being claustrophobic, elegant without being stuffy, and somehow they've managed to train the staff to be attentive without hovering like anxious helicopters.

The George has also pulled off another miracle - it's both dog-friendly and clean. I'm not sure how they manage this sorcery, but you can bring your four-legged friend without the place smelling like wet dog, which is more than I can say for some supposedly upscale establishments I could name (but won't, because their lawyers are scarier than their food hygiene ratings).

Let's talk about the clientele, because it's a fascinating mix. Yes, you've got your legal eagles from across the road, but there's also a healthy smattering of locals (yes, people do actually live in central London), tourists who've stumbled upon actual quality rather than a tourist trap, and the occasional journalist mourning the area's former status as the newspaper district.

The George does the seemingly impossible - it respects its heritage without becoming a museum piece, serves good food without disappearing up its own pretensions, and maintains high standards without making you feel like you need to remortgage your house for a pie and a pint.

Look, I didn't want to like The George. I wanted to write a scathing review about another overpriced London pub trading on location and history rather than quality. But here I am, recommending you book a table (yes, actually book - this isn't the kind of place where you can reliably chance it, especially for Sunday lunch). Just don't all go at once. Some of us critics need a reliable spot to drown our sorrows when we've had to sit through another restaurant opening where the highlight was the napkin folding.