The Kings Arms, Pub & Restaurant

Just what London needs - another pub trying to be everything to everyone. The Kings Arms in London's Hanwell area initially struck me as yet another identity-crisis establishment, straddling the line between traditional British boozer and curry house. But like finding a forgotten tenner in your jacket pocket, sometimes life's pleasant surprises come wrapped in questionable packaging.

Let's address the elephant in the room: The Kings Arms London is attempting that precarious balancing act of serving both proper pub grub and Indian-Nepalese cuisine. It's the sort of combination that usually sends me running for the hills, or at least to the nearest establishment that knows what it wants to be when it grows up. Yet somehow, against all odds and my better judgment, they're pulling it off with an awkward grace that's oddly endearing.

The space itself is deceptively welcoming, with that lived-in comfort that can't be manufactured by interior designers charging eye-watering consultancy fees. The main bar area maintains its proper pub credentials - dark wood, comfortable seats, and televisions strategically placed for sports viewing without turning the place into a wannabe Sky Sports studio. It's the kind of setup that makes you forgive the fact that you're paying London prices for your pint, even if you do momentarily pine for northern rates.

Speaking of the food - and I can't believe I'm writing this - the kitchen's identity crisis actually works in its favor. The chicken choila arrives with the kind of confident spicing that suggests someone's grandmother is back there guarding her secret recipe with the ferocity of a medieval castle keeper. The momos (when properly cooked, mind you - always check your dumplings) offer the kind of comfort that makes you temporarily forget about your mounting London rent payments.

But here's where it gets interesting: they haven't abandoned their pub roots in pursuit of culinary adventure. The traditional pub fare holds its own, though I approached the pizza with the kind of skepticism usually reserved for politicians' promises. Surprisingly, it turned out to be more than acceptable - the kind of thing you'd happily devour while watching Formula 1 on their screens, which they'll switch over without the eye-rolling you might encounter at other establishments.

The clientele is a fascinating mix of sports enthusiasts, curry aficionados, and locals who've probably been propping up the bar since before I was born. It's like watching a social experiment where everyone's actually getting along, probably because they're all equally surprised to find themselves enjoying the place so much.

They've managed to tick all the modern convenience boxes without becoming soulless - take-away service for those nights when you can't be bothered to change out of your pajamas, outdoor seating for the three days of proper summer London gets, and they're even dog-friendly, because apparently, even our four-legged friends need a proper local these days.

The service strikes that perfect London pub balance - attentive enough that you're not dying of thirst, yet relaxed enough that you don't feel like you're being hover-parented by an overenthusiastic waiter. The staff seems genuinely pleased to be there, which in London's hospitality scene is about as rare as an affordable flat in Zone 1.

Look, I wanted to be cynical about The Kings Arms London. I really did. But like that friend who keeps dating someone you initially thought was wrong for them, it's grown on me to the point where I have to admit I was hasty in my judgment. Whether you're after a proper curry, a decent pint while watching the match, or just a place to spend a few hours pretending your deadline doesn't exist, it works.

For a pub in London that's trying to be all things to all people, The Kings Arms has somehow managed to become something rather special - a genuine local that serves food worth crossing postcodes for. Book a table, grab a pint, order some momos (but do check they're cooked through), and prepare to be reluctantly charmed. Just don't come back to me complaining that it's become your new local. I take no responsibility for that inevitable outcome.