The Larrik

Just what London needs - another gastropub masquerading as the saving grace of British cuisine. The Larrik sits there on its corner perch, practically begging you to notice its carefully curated "neighbourhood pub" aesthetic. I'll admit, I walked in ready to pen another scathing review of mediocre pretensions dressed up in exposed brick and Edison bulbs.

But damn it all if The Larrik didn't make me eat my words along with their irritatingly perfect Scotch egg.

Let's be clear - this isn't your grandfather's London pub. Gone are the sticky floors and questionable meat pies, replaced with the sort of thoughtful menu that makes you wonder if they've got a Michelin-starred chef hiding in the kitchen, slumming it for kicks. The Jerusalem artichoke and cauliflower soup arrives like a warm hug on a dreary London afternoon, and I'm still trying to figure out how they managed to make something so simple taste so annoyingly complex.

The short rib with Comte on sourdough toast is the kind of dish that makes you temporarily forget you're in a pub at all. It's the sort of thing you'd expect to find in one of those trendy Shoreditch spots where they charge you extra for the privilege of sitting on uncomfortable furniture. Here, though, they've managed to keep the prices just this side of reasonable, which only adds to my reluctant appreciation.

Their bar program deserves mention, if only because it perfectly threads the needle between "proper pub" and "craft cocktail destination." Yes, you can still get a perfectly pulled pint, but their cocktail list shows someone behind the bar actually knows what they're doing with more than just a bottle opener. The wine list is surprisingly well-curated for a place that still welcomes muddy dogs and their owners after a romp in the park.

Speaking of which, The Larrik has somehow managed to maintain that holy grail of pub attributes: it's both a legitimate local's haunt and a destination worth crossing town for. The space works equally well for a casual Sunday brunch (book ahead, trust me) or a proper evening out. The live music offerings don't hurt either, though I'm contractually obligated to maintain my cynicism about acoustic covers of Ed Sheeran songs.

The service manages to strike that elusive balance between professional and personable - they know their stuff but won't bore you with a 15-minute dissertation on the provenance of their sourdough starter. Though given how good the bread is, I might actually sit through that lecture.

For families, they've got a children's menu that doesn't insult the intelligence of young palates - no chicken nugget disasters here. And while I generally regard "family-friendly pub" as an oxymoron, The Larrik makes it work without sacrificing its grown-up appeal. The outdoor seating area becomes prime real estate during London's brief flirtations with sunshine, and yes, they take reservations, because they're not monsters.

Look, I didn't want to like The Larrik. London has enough gastropubs trying to elevate the humble public house into something more ambitious. But when a place manages to nail both the "gastro" and the "pub" parts of the equation while keeping prices reasonable and service genuine, even a jaded critic has to wave the white flag.

So fine, The Larrik, you win. You've earned your place in London's competitive dining scene, delivering something that somehow feels both innovative and traditional, upscale and accessible. Book a table, grab a corner spot, order that Scotch egg (seriously, just do it), and prepare to join me in begrudging admiration. Just don't tell them I sent you - I have a reputation to maintain.