The Rose Battersea

Just what Battersea needed - another gastropub masquerading as the neighborhood's salvation. The Rose Battersea swooped into London's ever-evolving dining scene with all the familiar trappings: exposed brick, vintage light fixtures, and a menu that promised to "elevate" pub classics. I rolled my eyes so hard I nearly pulled a muscle.

But damn them for actually getting it right.

I wanted to hate The Rose Battersea. I really did. After two decades of watching London pubs get stripped of their character and stuffed full of small plates and craft beer, I was ready to sharpen my critic's knife. Then they had to go and be... actually good.

Let's start with the space, because it's impossible not to notice how they've managed to thread the needle between cozy pub and contemporary dining room. The renovation clearly cost someone a pretty penny, but unlike most makeovers that steam-clean all the charm out of a proper London boozer, The Rose Battersea retained just enough grit to feel authentic. The original bar stands proud, wearing its age like expensive vintage jewelry.

Their Sunday roast - typically the last bastion of mediocrity in trying-too-hard establishments - is annoyingly excellent. The beef arrives exactly as requested (a miracle in itself), accompanied by Yorkshire puddings that achieve that mythical balance between crisp and chewy. The roast potatoes are actually roasted, not just blanched and briefly waved at some hot oil. I hate that I'm about to write this, but they might be the best I've had south of the river.

Live music drifts through the space on select evenings, and remarkably, it doesn't make me want to flee immediately. They've somehow curated a lineup that enhances rather than interrupts the atmosphere. Even more surprisingly, the staff actually seem to enjoy being there - a concept so foreign to London hospitality that I had to check I hadn't wandered into an parallel universe.

The wine list is thoughtful without being pretentious, and the cocktails are mixed by people who understand that "craft" doesn't mean drowning everything in obscure bitters. They've even managed to keep a decent selection of proper ales on tap, proving you can evolve without completely abandoning tradition.

What truly sets The Rose Battersea apart - and I'm gritting my teeth as I admit this - is how seamlessly they transition from casual drinks to proper dining. The kitchen sends out bar snacks that make most restaurants' mains look amateur. Their scotch eggs (a dish I've eaten enough mediocre versions of to last several lifetimes) are practically pornographic - perfectly runny yolks encased in well-seasoned meat and wrapped in breadcrumbs that actually crunch.

The place is dog-friendly without letting the four-legged clientele run the asylum, and they've somehow managed to create outdoor seating that doesn't feel like you're dining in a wind tunnel. Even the paid street parking situation (because this is London, after all) is less painful than usual, with actually reasonable options nearby.

Making reservations is straightforward - a simple pleasure that shouldn't feel as revolutionary as it does in 2025. They take cards, support contactless payment, and haven't succumbed to the "cash only" pretension that some venues wear as a badge of honor.

Here's the truly infuriating part: The Rose Battersea has become exactly what this corner of London needed, without trying to reinvent the wheel. They've created a space where you can have a proper pint with your mates, a romantic dinner that won't require a second mortgage, or a Sunday roast that will make your mum grudgingly admit that yes, some people outside her kitchen can cook.

So here I am, a jaded critic forced to eat crow (perfectly roasted, I'm sure) and admit that The Rose Battersea isn't just another soulless renovation. It's a genuine evolution of what a modern London pub can be. Go there before it gets impossibly packed - just don't tell them I sent you. I have a reputation to maintain.