The Goat

Just what London needs - another pub with a farm animal name. The Goat in London had me rolling my eyes before I even crossed the threshold. Tucked away on Battersea Rise like some sort of poorly-kept secret, it's the kind of place that probably thinks serving chips in tiny metal pails counts as gastropub innovation.

But damn it all if I didn't find myself grudgingly warming to the place.

Perhaps it was the surprisingly competent staff, who manage to strike that elusive balance between attentive and overbearing - a feat rarer in London than a reasonable rent price. They actually seem to enjoy their jobs, which initially made me suspicious. Nobody's that happy in hospitality unless they're plotting something.

The space itself refuses to conform to the cookie-cutter pub template that plagues so many London establishments. The Goat spreads across two floors, with the upstairs area available for private bookings - perfect for those occasions when you need to pretend you're sophisticated enough to plan ahead. The downstairs transforms into something approaching a proper party venue later in the evening, complete with live music that, miraculously, doesn't make you want to stuff bar napkins in your ears.

Let's talk about the food, shall we? I arrived prepared to pen another scathing critique of mediocre pub grub, my metaphorical knife sharpened and ready. Instead, I found myself increasingly annoyed by how genuinely good everything was. The Sunday roast (because of course I tried it - it's practically a legal requirement for pub reviews) was irritatingly well-executed. The vegetarian options are actually thoughtful creations rather than the usual afterthought of mushroom risotto that haunts plant-based diners across the city.

The drinks selection is equally infuriating in its quality. The beer list manages to satisfy both craft beer snobs and those who just want a decent pint without having to pretend they care about hop profiles. Their cocktail game is surprisingly strong, though I maintain that anywhere serving drinks in mason jars should be forced to attend some sort of rehabilitation program.

What's particularly vexing about The Goat is how it manages to be both a proper local and a destination venue. The regulars haven't been priced out or scared away by the inevitable waves of young professionals taking selfies with their espresso martinis. Instead, there's an oddly harmonious mix of old-school pub-goers, families with surprisingly well-behaved children, and the Instagram crowd. It shouldn't work, but it does, much like that questionable combination of prints your stylish friend somehow pulls off.

Dog-friendly without becoming a canine circus, group-friendly without descending into chaos, and date-friendly without being sickeningly romantic - it's as if someone actually put thought into the concept. The nerve.

The pricing sits in that sweet spot where you can't quite complain but also can't quite forget you're in London. You'll pay more than your local in Hull would charge, but less than those places where they serve single prawns on beds of foam and call it cuisine.

Even the location works in its favor, though I'm loath to admit it. Nestled in Battersea, it's just far enough from the main drag to feel like a discovery, yet close enough that you won't need to remortgage your house for the Uber home.

Here's the truly annoying part: I've been back. Multiple times. Voluntarily. The Goat in London has somehow wormed its way onto my list of go-to recommendations, despite my best efforts to maintain my professional cynicism. Whether you're planning a birthday bash upstairs (where the staff somehow manage to make even large groups feel well-tended), seeking a solid Sunday lunch, or just in need of a reliable watering hole, you'll find yourself reluctantly impressed.

Go ahead, visit The Goat. Join me in my defeat. Just don't blame me when you find yourself becoming one of those irritating people who's found their new favorite London pub. At least we can be annoying together.