The Prince Blucher, Twickenham

Just what Twickenham needed - another pub claiming to be a cut above the rest. The Prince Blucher in London's rugby heartland initially struck me as yet another pretender to the "elevated pub grub" throne. You know the type: gastropub aspirations, chalkboard specials, and just enough exposed brick to make Instagram influencers swoon.

But damn it all if this place hasn't wormed its way into my cynical heart.

Let's start with that garden - a surprisingly verdant escape that makes you momentarily forget you're in London's southwestern sprawl. The Prince Blucher has somehow managed to create an outdoor space that doesn't feel like an afterthought crammed between parking spaces. There's an actual pizza oven out there, for heaven's sake. Who do they think they are, being this thoughtful about outdoor dining?

The interior hits that sweet spot between "cozy pub" and "we actually clean our tap lines" - a balance that's harder to strike than you'd think. The seating manages to be both abundant and comfortable, which is apparently some sort of miracle in London pub terms. They've resisted the urge to plaster the walls with random vintage advertisements or fill every corner with mismatched furniture that looks like it was rescued from a dozen different estate sales.

Now, about the food. I arrived during a Harlequins match day, fully prepared to write off the kitchen as another victim of volume over quality. Instead, I found myself faced with a Sunday roast that made me question my life choices. The beef was actually tender - properly tender, not "we've boiled it into submission" tender. The Yorkshire pudding stood proud and tall, unlike the sad, deflated specimens that haunt so many London pubs. And the gravy... well, let's just say they understand that gravy isn't meant to be rationed like liquid gold.

The staff, against all odds, seem to genuinely enjoy their jobs. I know - I was suspicious too. But watch them long enough and you'll see it's not an act. They remember regulars' names, manage the rugby crowd chaos with remarkable grace, and somehow maintain their sanity even when the garden is heaving with sun-seeking Londoners.

The beer selection strikes a careful balance between "craft enough to satisfy the hop snobs" and "familiar enough for your uncle who still only drinks one brand of lager." The wine list won't win awards, but it won't make you wince either. And they pour proper measures - none of that "is this actually a thimble?" nonsense.

They've managed to create that rarest of creatures - a pub that works equally well for a Sunday roast with the in-laws, a match day pint with mates, or a summer evening in the garden with a pizza and a cold one. The quiz nights are actually entertaining, rather than an exercise in Google-speed-reading under the table.

Yes, you'll pay a bit more than at your basic boozer, but at least here you can taste where the money went. The portion sizes suggest they're not trying to fund a yacht with their markup, which in London's pub scene is practically a charitable act.

For context, you'll find The Prince Blucher in Twickenham's more residential quarters, away from the main rugby crowd crush but close enough to benefit from match day energy without being overwhelmed by it. Its location makes it a genuine neighborhood pub that happens to be good, rather than a destination pub trying to manufacture local charm.

Look, I didn't want to like The Prince Blucher. I really didn't. But between the genuinely good food, the impressive garden, the staff who seem to have missed the memo about London service being necessarily surly, and the overall atmosphere of a place that actually cares... well, you win this round, Blucher. Book ahead for Sunday lunch, arrive early for garden spots in summer, and prepare to join the ranks of the reluctantly converted.