The Red Lion

Just what London needs - another historic pub called The Red Lion. Because apparently the other 147 Red Lions scattered across the city weren't quite enough. Tucked away in a characteristically confusing London alley, this particular Red Lion seems determined to distinguish itself from its namesakes through sheer stubbornness and a puzzling dedication to tradition that borders on the obsessive.

The building dates back to the 1690s, which they'll remind you of approximately every seven minutes. Yes, yes, we get it - you're older than America. Though I must admit, rather grudgingly, that the wood paneling has aged rather well, developing the kind of patina that nouveau-vintage bars spend thousands trying to replicate. The tiny one-room space somehow manages to feel both claustrophobic and oddly cozy, like being hugged by a slightly drunk great-aunt.

I arrived determined to find fault with yet another overpriced central London pub, my notepad ready for a scathing review. But somewhere between the surprisingly well-kept ales and the complete absence of any background music (a blessed relief in this era of gastropubs that think they're nightclubs), I found my cynicism beginning to crack. The lack of pretense is almost pretentious in itself - there's no craft beer menu written on a salvaged church door, no deconstructed fish and chips served in a flat cap. It's just... a pub. An honest-to-god, unapologetic London pub.

The bar staff possess that peculiar blend of gruffness and efficiency that seems genetically encoded in proper pub workers. They'll pour you a perfect pint while somehow making you feel simultaneously welcomed and slightly judged. It's an art form, really. And while the prices might make your wallet wince (welcome to London, where a pint costs as much as a small car payment), the quality of the pour almost - almost - justifies it.

The regulars deserve their own paragraph, as they're essentially part of the furniture at this point. They're a fascinating ecosystem of city workers, local characters, and lost tourists who wandered in looking for Buckingham Palace and somehow never left. They contribute to the pub's atmosphere in the same way that moss contributes to a stone wall - they're not strictly necessary, but it wouldn't feel right without them.

Speaking of atmosphere, there's something almost defiantly anachronistic about The Red Lion's steadfast refusal to modernize beyond absolute necessity. Yes, they take cards now (though the card machine looks like it might have been cutting-edge technology during the Blair administration), and there's a TV in the corner inexplicably playing CNN. But otherwise, it feels pleasantly stuck in time, like a liquid-serving time capsule.

The bathroom situation deserves special mention, if only as a warning. Located in what feels like the building's medieval dungeon, accessing it requires navigating a staircase that seems designed by someone with a grudge against basic human mobility. After a few pints, it becomes an adventure worthy of its own reality show. Consider timing your visits carefully.

Let's address the dog situation, because it's important: yes, they're allowed, and yes, they're often better behaved than their owners. There's usually at least one snoozing beneath a bar stool, adding to that particular brand of lived-in charm that The Red Lion has mastered without trying.

For groups, the pub operates on what I'll call the sardine principle - there's always room for one more, even when there quite clearly isn't. The crowd management follows traditional London pub physics, where somehow the more packed it gets, the more people can squeeze in. It's like watching a magic trick, but with fewer top hats and more spilled beer.

Look, I didn't want to like The Red Lion. London has enough historic pubs trading on their age rather than their quality. But this place has wormed its way into my cynical heart like a stubborn wood worm in its ancient beams. If you're in London and can find it (hint: it's down that alley you just walked past), do yourself a favor and stop in. Just don't blame me for the stairs after your fourth pint. And whatever you do, don't tell them I sent you - I have a reputation to maintain.