The Sir Michael Balcon

Ah yes, The Sir Michael Balcon in London, another Wetherspoons masquerading as something potentially worthwhile. Just what Ealing Broadway needed - another pub named after some historic figure most patrons couldn't pick out of a lineup (though ironically, he was actually a legendary Ealing Studios producer, so points for local relevance, I suppose).

I'll admit, I approached this establishment with the same enthusiasm I reserve for dental appointments. The exterior, with its remnants of historic architecture and surprisingly pleasant outdoor seating, gave me my first unwanted pang of optimism. Damn it. The pavement tables are set back just enough from the street that you don't feel like you're dining in traffic - a simple pleasure I didn't expect to appreciate quite so much.

Inside, it's the usual Wetherspoons formula, but somehow... better? The space retains some genuine character, unlike the cookie-cutter conveyor belt pubs the chain usually churns out. The interior actually acknowledges its cinema heritage with subtle nods to Ealing Studios' golden age. I hate that I find this charming.

Let's address the elephant in the room - the prices. In London, where a pint can cost the same as a small car payment, The Sir Michael Balcon's price point is refreshingly reasonable. No, scratch that - it's downright aggressive. When I first saw the menu prices, I assumed there must be a decimal point missing. But no - you can actually get a decent meal and a drink for what you'd spend on a sandwich alone in central London. I'm as shocked as you are that it's actually edible.

The food, while not exactly competing with London's Michelin-starred establishments, consistently surpasses the low bar I initially set. Their fish and chips - a dish I've had everywhere from Brighton to Aberdeen - manages to be both generous and properly executed. The batter actually crunches (imagine that), and the fish hasn't been sitting under a heat lamp since the last royal wedding. Their curry offerings, which I approached with appropriate skepticism, turned out to be surprisingly competent. Not your gran's authentic Indian cooking, mind you, but more than serviceable for pub fare.

The drink selection deserves mention, if only because it's broader than you'd expect for the price point. Real ales rotate regularly, and they actually keep them properly - something I've learned not to take for granted. The craft beer selection won't impress your hipster friends, but it won't embarrass you either. And yes, they have those infuriating touch-screen ordering points, but they actually work, which puts them ahead of half the "premium" pubs in London.

What really gets me - and I can't believe I'm saying this - is the atmosphere. Despite being part of a chain, The Sir Michael Balcon has somehow developed its own personality. The crowd is an entertaining mix of students, locals, and people who look like they have interesting stories they're willing to share after their second pint. During sports events, the multiple screens make it possible to actually see what's happening, without feeling like you're in a betting shop.

The service, while following the Wetherspoons model of ordering via app or at the bar, is surprisingly efficient. Yes, during peak times you might wait a bit, but show me a London pub where that isn't true. At least here you won't have to remortgage your house for the privilege.

Location-wise, you can't really fault it. A stone's throw from Ealing Broadway station, it's convenient without being caught in the worst of the high street chaos. Perfect for when you need a reliable pit stop but can't face another characterless chain restaurant or overpriced gastropub.

Look, I'm not saying The Sir Michael Balcon in London is going to change your life. But in a city where mediocrity often comes with a premium price tag, this place offers a surprisingly decent experience at prices that won't make you wince. Go ahead, drop in for a pint and some pub classics. Just don't blame me when you find yourself becoming a regular. I certainly won't admit how often I end up here myself.