The Red Lion

Just what London needs - another pub called The Red Lion. Because apparently the other 437 weren't quite enough for this city's insatiable appetite for establishments named after crimson-colored big cats. Yet here I am, reluctantly admitting that this particular Red Lion in London's High Barnet actually manages to distinguish itself from the pride, so to speak.

I'll be honest - I walked in with my critic's quill sharpened, ready to eviscerate yet another mediocre pub serving microwaved shepherd's pie and warm beer. The audacity of charging actual money for what I assumed would be standard pub fare had me practically salivating at the prospect of a scathing review. But then something rather inconvenient happened - they turned out to be... good?

The first crack in my cynical armor appeared when I noticed the carvery setup. Usually, these are sorry affairs where dried-out meat sits sadly under heat lamps, dreaming of its more dignified days as a living, breathing animal. But the Red Lion's carvery station, helmed by a surprisingly cheerful chef named Hugo (who, annoyingly, makes it impossible to maintain one's professional distance with his genuine warmth), offers cuts that are actually... properly cooked? The beef actually bleeds when carved, rather than crumbling into dust like the archaeological remains of Sunday roasts past.

The vegetable selection would make my nutrition-obsessed mother weep with joy, and not just because they're actually seasoned. Everything is fresh, properly cooked, and - I can't believe I'm writing this - there's not a mushy brussels sprout in sight. The roast potatoes (my usual barometer for pub mediocrity) are crispy on the outside, fluffy within, and show signs of having actually seen the inside of an oven rather than a microwave.

What's equally baffling is the price point. In a city where you typically need to remortgage your home for a decent meal, The Red Lion keeps things surprisingly reasonable. The portion sizes suggest they missed the memo about London's tendency toward microscopic servings that require a magnifying glass to locate on the plate.

The interior manages to walk that fine line between "traditional pub" and "actually clean and well-maintained." There's proper seating for families (complete with high chairs that don't look like they've survived both World Wars), a decent outdoor area for those brave enough to face the British weather, and - marvel of marvels - bathrooms that don't require a hazmat suit to enter.

For those seeking liquid sustenance, the bar doesn't disappoint. The beer selection is comprehensive without being pretentious, and they actually know how to keep and pour it properly - a skill seemingly as rare in London as affordable housing. They've even got a wine list that extends beyond "red or white?" and cocktails that involve more sophistication than just mixing vodka with whatever juice is on hand.

What's particularly irksome is their ability to accommodate various dietary requirements without making a fuss about it. The vegetarian options aren't just afterthoughts, and they can handle a gluten-free request without acting like you've asked them to perform complex surgery. It's almost as if they actually care about their customers' needs. How inconvenient.

The staff, frustratingly, refuse to give me anything to complain about. They're attentive without hovering, knowledgeable without being condescending, and - most annoyingly - genuine in their friendliness. I've made several attempts to catch them having a bad day, but they persist in maintaining their professional cheerfulness.

Look, I didn't want to like The Red Lion. London has enough decent pubs, and my job is considerably easier when I can unleash my satirical wrath on deserving establishments. But if you're in the area and in need of a reliable spot for anything from a quick pint to a full Sunday roast, I suppose I must grudgingly recommend it. Just don't tell them I sent you - I have a reputation to maintain, and this much positivity is already giving me hives.