The Stewart Arms

Just what London needs - another pub claiming to be a proper local boozer. The Stewart Arms sits there, brazenly existing among the city's approximately 47 million drinking establishments, daring you to be unimpressed. And initially, I was determined to be exactly that.

Look, I've seen enough "authentic London pubs" to last several lifetimes. They're usually about as authentic as Dick Van Dyke's accent in Mary Poppins. But The Stewart Arms, curse its surprisingly charming soul, actually manages to pull off what so many others try desperately to manufacture.

First, let's address the elephant in the room - or rather, the complete lack of pretentious elephants. The Stewart Arms is refreshingly devoid of the gastro-nonsense that's infected half of London's pubs like a artisanal sourdough plague. No deconstructed fish and chips served on a repurposed Victorian doorknob here, thank you very much.

The prices are almost suspicious. In a city where you typically need to remortgage your house for a round of drinks, The Stewart Arms maintains the kind of pricing that makes you double-check your bill in disbelief. I kept waiting for the catch - perhaps they water down the beer with Thames water, or maybe they're running some elaborate money laundering scheme. But no, it's just... reasonable. How utterly unfashionable of them.

The space itself has that lived-in feel that you can't fake - believe me, I've seen plenty try. Dark wood that's actually old, not artificially distressed by some earnest designer named Trevor. The pool table isn't there as a hipster prop; it's actually used, complete with the kind of regulars who look like they came with the building's original deed.

Outside, there's a small patio that somehow manages to be pleasant despite London's best efforts to rain on it. It's perfect for those three annual days of sunshine, or for smokers trying to avoid death by hypothermia during the other 362 days.

The staff, confoundingly, are actually friendly. Not the manufactured, corporate-training-manual friendly that makes you want to flee, but the genuine sort who remember your usual order and occasionally throw in the kind of good-natured insult that makes you feel like you belong. I hate how much I appreciate this.

They've got a dart board that's seen more action than a soap opera character, and a jukebox that thankfully hasn't been updated since the Blair administration. The music selection swings wildly between classic British hits and whatever random tracks previous patrons thought would be hilarious to inflict on everyone else. Somehow, it works.

The beer selection is solid, if not revolutionary - but that's rather the point, isn't it? They serve proper pints (none of that schooner nonsense), and the pulls are well-maintained. The wine list won't win awards, but it's perfectly adequate for a pub that knows exactly what it is. And what it is, I'm irritated to report, is actually quite good.

During football matches, it transforms into exactly the kind of place you want to watch sports - passionate but not aggressive, lively but not chaotic. The screens are positioned so you can actually see them, which sounds obvious but is surprisingly rare in London's pub scene.

Dog-friendly without being a canine circus, group-friendly without feeling like a tourist trap, The Stewart Arms has mastered the delicate balance that so many others get wrong. The payment system has been dragged into the 21st century (they accept cards and contactless), but thankfully everything else remains pleasantly stuck in a timeless pub paradigm.

Let me be clear - I wanted to dislike The Stewart Arms. I really did. But like that friend who keeps making terrible puns that somehow make you laugh anyway, it's impossible to maintain any genuine animosity. It's a proper London pub that's not trying to be anything else, and I'm annoyed at how refreshing that is.

If you're in this part of London and looking for an unpretentious pint, decent prices, and an atmosphere that hasn't been focus-grouped to death, you'll end up here. And despite my best efforts to maintain my professional cynicism, I'll probably see you there. Just don't expect me to admit I recommended it.