The Harlequin

Just what London needs - another "charming" pub hiding in Clerkenwell's labyrinthine streets. The Harlequin in London initially struck me as yet another establishment trading on ye olde English charm and proximity to Sadler's Wells. But damn it all if this 1822 converted terraced house hasn't wormed its way into my cynical heart like a persistent earworm you eventually catch yourself humming.

Let's address the elephant in the room - yes, it's housed in what was once a baker's shop before some Victorian entrepreneur had the brilliant idea to start serving alcohol instead of bread. Because obviously what 19th century London needed was more places to drink. Yet somehow, The Harlequin London has managed to avoid the usual fate of historic pubs - it hasn't been transformed into a soulless chain outlet serving microwaved meals to tired tourists.

The first crack in my armor appeared when I spotted the piano tucked away in the back. Not some dusty prop, mind you, but an actually tuned instrument that occasionally hosts impromptu performances from talented locals. It's the kind of touch that makes you wonder if you've stumbled into someone's particularly well-stocked living room rather than a commercial establishment.

The beer selection nearly made me drop my professional disdain entirely. They've managed to thread the needle between craft beer pretension and "we only serve three types of lager" traditionalism. Finding both Blue Moon and Leffe on tap alongside proper cask ales feels like someone actually thought about what people want to drink rather than what's trending on Instagram.

Speaking of space, the single room wrapped around a square center bar shouldn't work. It should feel cramped and chaotic. Yet somehow the layout creates these little pockets of intimacy without making you feel like you're eavesdropping on your neighbors' relationship drama. The burnt orange walls and beach-washed panels could have been tacky, but they've managed to make it feel warm rather than trying too hard.

Then there's the "secret garden" out back, which is about as secret as the Queen's residence at Buckingham Palace, yet still manages to surprise first-time visitors. It's a proper green oasis, though calling it a garden might be overselling it slightly. Still, on a warm London evening (yes, they do exist), there are few better places to nurse a pint while pretending you're not in Zone 1.

The staff, curse them, make it impossible to maintain proper British reserve. They're friendly without being overbearing, knowledgeable without being pretentious, and - most annoyingly - genuine in their enthusiasm for the place. It's like they actually enjoy working here, which is deeply suspicious for central London.

Price-wise, it sits in that sweet spot where you can't quite complain but still feel obliged to mention that your local suburban pub charges 50p less per pint. The bar snacks menu is refreshingly honest - cheese boards and saucisson sec rather than attempting full gastropub pretensions. They know what they are, and they're not trying to be anything else.

The proximity to Sadler's Wells means you'll occasionally have to share space with theatre-goers in their Friday best, but even they seem to dial down the drama once they cross the threshold. There's something about The Harlequin that encourages people to just... relax.

Look, I didn't want to like The Harlequin London. I really didn't. But like that one friend who's irritatingly right about everything, it's impossible to maintain any legitimate grievances. If you must venture into Clerkenwell for a drink - and let's face it, there are worse reasons to visit - you might as well surrender to its charms. Just try to look slightly reluctant about it, for appearance's sake.