the Pied Bull Enfield

Just what North London needed - another historic pub trying to straddle the line between traditional boozer and gastropub aspirations. The Pied Bull Enfield has been serving the good people of London since seemingly the dawn of time, and like that ancient regular propped up at the bar, it's showing both its age and a stubborn refusal to go quietly into the night.

I'll admit, I approached with the weary resignation of someone who's suffered through one too many mediocre pub roasts. The building itself is undeniably charming - all weathered brick and vintage signage that Instagram influencers probably dream about. But we've all been catfished by a photogenic pub before, haven't we?

The first surprise came when I discovered the beer garden - a genuine oasis that doesn't feel like it was hastily cobbled together during lockdown using spare pallets and fairy lights. On a sunny day, it's almost offensive how pleasant it is out there, with actual trees providing shade instead of the usual shabby umbrellas advertising whatever lager is on special.

Inside, the Pied Bull maintains that delicate balance between "preserved" and "hasn't seen a decorator since the Thatcher years." The wood paneling is actually wood, not that vinyl wrap nonsense that's become depressingly common in London pubs trying to fake heritage. The bar staff know their ales without consulting an app, which shouldn't be noteworthy but somehow is in 2025.

Now, about the food. I was prepared for the usual suspects - bland burger, tired fish and chips, a Sunday roast that would make your nan weep. But someone in that kitchen actually seems to care, which is both surprising and slightly inconvenient for my planned scathing review. The wild boar sausages and mash show genuine ambition, even if the gravy-to-mash ratio occasionally needs parliamentary intervention. They're not trying to reinvent the wheel here, just serve proper pub grub that doesn't taste like it came from a sysco truck.

The prices sit in that sweet spot where you can't quite complain but still feel obligated to mention them disapprovingly to your mates. It's not bargain-basement territory, but neither is it one of those London pubs where ordering a round requires a quick chat with your mortgage advisor.

What really gets me - and I'm annoyed to even write this - is how they've managed to modernize without losing their soul. Yes, they take cards (and even that newfangled contactless stuff), have decent wine options beyond "red or white," and the loos have been updated sometime this century. But it still feels like a proper pub, not a chain restaurant wearing pub costume.

The clientele is a fascinating mix of locals who've been drinking here since before I was born, young professionals who've discovered that Enfield isn't actually the end of the world, and families taking advantage of the fact that both children and dogs are welcome. Somehow, they all coexist without the usual territorial tensions you see in other London pubs trying to be all things to all people.

For groups, they've got those big wooden tables that have witnessed decades of spilled pints and heated political debates. They take bookings too, which in London's pub scene is becoming as rare as a reasonably priced pint in Zone 1.

Look, I wanted to hate the Pied Bull Enfield. It would have been easier to write another snarky review about London's dying pub culture. But despite my best efforts to maintain professional cynicism, I've found myself becoming one of those irritating people who actually recommends it to friends.

If you're in this corner of London and need a proper pub that hasn't forgotten what that means, the Pied Bull is worth your time. Just don't all rush there at once - I've finally found my regular Sunday spot, and I'd rather not have to queue for it. But if you do come, you'll find me in the beer garden, grudgingly enjoying myself while pretending to work on my laptop. Just don't expect me to admit that in person.