The Roebuck

Just what London needs - another gastropub pretending it's reinvented the wheel. The Roebuck in London initially struck me as yet another establishment riding the tired wave of "elevated pub fare," a phrase that usually makes me want to crawl into a dark corner with a bag of crisps and question my career choices.

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

I arrived on a typically grey London afternoon, armed with cynicism and a notepad ready to document what I assumed would be another soulless attempt at gentrifying perfectly good pub culture. The Roebuck's exterior gave me pause, though - no tacky modernization, no desperate attempt to appear "industrial chic." Just a proper London pub that seemed comfortable in its own brick-and-mortar skin.

Inside, I was prepared to mock the inevitable Edison bulbs and reclaimed wood. Instead, I found myself in a space that actually remembers what pubs are meant to be - warm, welcoming, and mercifully free of pretension. The staff, against my better judgment, turned out to be genuinely friendly rather than performatively chirpy. I hate when that happens.

Let's talk about the food, shall we? The menu reads like it was written by someone who actually knows their way around a kitchen rather than a marketing team throwing darts at a board of trendy ingredients. The prices won't make you gasp in horror - they're fair for London, though I've certainly paid less elsewhere. But here's the rub: the quality actually justifies the cost, which pains me to admit.

Their Sunday roast (because what's the point of a London pub if you can't judge their roast?) is irritatingly good. The beef arrives properly pink, the Yorkshire puddings don't taste like they came from a frozen bag, and the roast potatoes actually crunch. They even manage to make vegetables interesting, which in Britain is something of a minor miracle.

The beer selection shows similar thoughtfulness - a rotating cast of local brews alongside the usual suspects. Wine list? Surprisingly decent, with markup that won't require a second mortgage. The cocktails are competent too, though if you're coming to a pub for cocktails, we need to have a serious conversation about life choices.

What really gets me is the atmosphere. The Roebuck has mastered that elusive art of being busy without being chaotic, lively without being deafening. Dogs are welcome, which means you can watch other people's pooches while drinking your pint - arguably the best form of entertainment that doesn't involve a screen.

They take reservations (hallelujah), have outdoor seating for those three days of London sunshine, and - in a move that actually made me smile despite myself - offer filtered water without the usual song and dance about wanting to sell you the bottled stuff. It's these little touches that make me question my professional cynicism.

The service deserves special mention, if only because it's managed to crack my hardened reviewer's heart. Late one evening, I witnessed the manager reopen the kitchen just to serve dessert to some hopeful latecomers. Who does that anymore? Apparently, The Roebuck does, and it's exactly this kind of old-school hospitality that makes me want to burn my reviewing notebook and just become a regular.

For families wondering - yes, they have a children's menu, and no, you won't feel like a pariah for bringing your offspring. Groups are well-accommodated, though book ahead unless you enjoy disappointment. The payment system has dragged itself into the 21st century, accepting everything from contactless to good old-fashioned cash.

Look, I didn't want to like The Roebuck. I really didn't. London has enough good pubs (though fewer by the day), and I'm naturally suspicious of anywhere that manages to maintain a 4.4-star rating on Google. But if you're in this corner of London and in need of proper pub fare, genuinely good service, and an atmosphere that reminds you why pubs became the cornerstone of British social life in the first place, you'll find me here. Probably at the corner table, pretending I'm not enjoying myself nearly as much as I am. Just don't tell anyone I sent you - I have a reputation to maintain.