The Lady Ottoline

Just what London needs - another gastropub with literary pretensions. The Lady Ottoline in Bloomsbury seems to think naming itself after a Victorian literary salon hostess will distract us from the fact that it's yet another establishment trying to elevate pub grub to something worthy of its postcode. And yet...

I hate to admit it, but there's something undeniably charming about this place. Maybe it's the way the evening light filters through the vintage windows, casting a warm glow across the dark wood paneling that manages to feel both classic and contemporary. Or perhaps it's how the staff somehow maintain their genuine friendliness despite working in central London - a feat that deserves recognition in itself.

Let's talk about that Scotch egg, shall we? I've consumed enough mediocre pub fare to last several lifetimes, but The Lady Ottoline's black pudding version is something else entirely. The outer shell shatters with satisfying precision, revealing a perfectly jammy yolk that makes you question everything you thought you knew about pub snacks. It's the kind of dish that makes you temporarily forget you're a cynical food writer who's supposed to be finding fault with everything.

The main courses continue this annoying trend of competence. Their fish and chips - a dish I've seen butchered more times than I care to count - arrives with beer batter so crisp it practically sings, while the fish beneath remains delicate and moist. Even the mushy peas (usually the sad, neglected stepchild of the plate) show evidence of actual thought and seasoning.

The wine list deserves particular mention, if only because it manages to avoid the usual pub trap of offering either plonk or remortgage-your-house vintage with nothing in between. Whoever curated this selection clearly knows their stuff but, more importantly, understands their audience. The pricing is remarkably reasonable, which makes me deeply suspicious. What's the catch?

The upstairs dining room hosts private events, and I'm told they do it rather well. The space manages to feel special without drowning in pretension - no small feat in this part of London. It's the kind of room where you could host anything from a birthday dinner to a wake and feel like you've made the right choice.

Yes, there are minor gripes. Some might balk at paying eight quid for halloumi, and occasionally the kitchen's timing can be as erratic as a London bus schedule. The truffle cauliflower cheese seems to have an identity crisis, varying from subtle to overwhelming depending on which server delivers it. But these feel like quibbles rather than deal-breakers.

The dog-friendly policy means you might have to share space with someone's precious pooch, but at least it gives you something to blame if you get emotional over how good the food is. "No, I'm not crying about this perfectly cooked roast - I'm just allergic to that labradoodle in the corner."

Located in the heart of Bloomsbury, The Lady Ottoline stands as a testament to what a London pub can be when it actually tries. The beautiful Grade II listed building could have easily become yet another soulless venue trading on location alone. Instead, it's evolved into something that manages to honor both its historic surroundings and contemporary expectations.

Look, I didn't want to like The Lady Ottoline. I wanted to dismiss it as another overpriced central London pub riding the gastropub wave. But much like its namesake's literary salon, it's created something genuine in a world of pretenders. Book a table. Go for the Scotch egg, stay for everything else, and join me in reluctantly admitting that sometimes, just sometimes, places like this deserve their reputation.