The Marquis Cornwallis

Just what London needs - another pub claiming to be a cut above the rest. The Marquis Cornwallis sits there in Bloomsbury, all proud and proper, like it's somehow different from the thousand other watering holes dotting this city's streets. I approached with my usual skepticism, fully prepared to add it to my mental list of mediocre establishments trading on location alone.

I hate being wrong. But here we are.

The thing about The Marquis Cornwallis is that it refuses to fit neatly into the box I'd prepared for it. Sure, it's got that classic London pub facade that practically screams "tourist trap," but step inside and you'll find yourself in what I reluctantly admit is a rather thoughtfully designed space. The interior manages to walk that impossibly fine line between traditional pub charm and modern comfort - no small feat in a city where most venues either feel stuck in 1952 or have been stripped of all character in the name of contemporary design.

Let's talk about the Sunday roast, since that seems to be what everyone's on about these days. I fully expected to be served the usual suspects: dried-out meat, soggy vegetables, and potatoes that could double as construction materials. Instead, I found myself faced with a plate that made me question my life choices as a professional cynic. The beef was actually succulent - a word I usually reserve for describing tropical fruits, not London pub fare. The vegetables showed signs of having been prepared by someone who understands cooking is an art form, not just a matter of boiling things until they surrender.

The pricing sits squarely in that territory where it's not cheap enough to be a regular haunt but not expensive enough to feel like highway robbery. You're paying for quality, yes, but at least you're actually getting it. Unlike certain establishments I could name (but won't, because their lawyers are terrifyingly efficient).

What truly sets The Marquis Cornwallis apart - and I can't believe I'm saying this - is the staff. In a city where customer service often feels like an optional extra, they've managed to assemble a team that seems genuinely interested in whether you're enjoying yourself. It's unsettling, really. I found myself making mental notes about their beer recommendations, which were surprisingly on point and didn't just default to the most expensive options on tap.

The upstairs drawing room deserves special mention, if only because it's where I witnessed what might be the most civilized wedding reception I've ever accidentally crashed (for journalistic purposes, obviously). The space manages to feel intimate without being cramped, elegant without being pretentious - a combination as rare as a quiet moment on Oxford Street.

Dog-friendly without being a canine circus, group-friendly without devolving into chaos, and equipped with payment systems from this century - it's almost like they're trying to run a proper establishment here. The outdoor seating catches the afternoon sun in a way that makes you forget you're in a city famous for its grey skies.

Here's the thing about The Marquis Cornwallis in London - and I'm gritting my teeth as I write this - it's actually worth your time. Book ahead for Sunday roast unless you enjoy disappointment. The fish and chips won't make you question everything you know about food, but they will remind you why this dish became a British classic in the first place. And yes, the bangers and mash are good enough to make you temporarily forget about your low-carb resolutions.

Look, I didn't want to like this place. I really didn't. But The Marquis Cornwallis has managed to do what so many London pubs attempt and fail at - create an atmosphere that feels both authentic and relevant, serve food that's actually worth eating, and maintain a level of service that makes you want to return. It's infuriating, really, how they've left me with nothing substantial to complain about.

Go ahead, book a table. Join the ranks of the converted. Just don't tell them I sent you - I have a reputation to maintain.