The Sun In Splendour

Just what Notting Hill needed - another pseudo-rustic pub with a supposedly storied history. The Sun In Splendour in London stands there, all golden and gleaming, like it's trying too hard to live up to its grandiose name. I rolled my eyes so hard at first glance, I nearly gave myself a headache.

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

Maybe it was the moment I discovered their homemade scotch eggs weren't the sad, prepacked affairs that plague so many London pubs. These golden-crusted spheres of joy actually made me pause mid-snark. The outer shell shatters with satisfying crispness, giving way to perfectly seasoned meat and that elusive holy grail - a properly runny yolk. It's the kind of pub snack that makes you forget you're supposed to be maintaining your air of professional disdain.

The Sun In Splendour's beer garden deserves mention, if only because it manages to avoid the usual London pub garden pitfalls. You know the type - cramped concrete squares with three wobbly tables and an inexplicable collection of cigarette butts. Instead, this verdant spot feels like stumbling into someone's well-maintained backyard, assuming that someone has impeccable taste and a penchant for stringing up tasteful lighting.

The main menu had me prepared to recite my usual "elevated pub grub" speech - that tired critique of establishments trying to fancy up shepherd's pie with truffle oil. But their fish and chips stopped me cold. The batter actually crackles when broken, revealing pearlescent fish that flakes just so. The chips? Hand-cut, double-fried, and seasoned by someone who apparently understands that salt is a seasoning, not a punishment.

Their Sunday roast (because of course they do one - this is London, after all) manages to avoid the dreaded dry-meat syndrome that plagues so many weekend offerings. The Yorkshire puddings rise like golden clouds, and the gravy has actual depth, not just brown-tinged saltiness. I'm almost angry about how good it is.

The interior walks that precarious line between cozy and claustrophobic, managing to land just on the right side of charming. The wooden beams aren't trying too hard to look aged (because they actually are), and the corners are authentically worn smooth by generations of elbows. It's lived-in without feeling tired, curated without seeming contrived.

They've got all the expected modern conveniences - contactless payments, a decent wine list, cocktails that don't taste like they were mixed by someone's color-blind cousin - but they're not shoving their contemporary credentials in your face. The staff maintains that perfect British pub balance of being there when you need them while leaving you blissfully alone when you don't.

The prices won't make you choke on your pint, but neither will they have you suspecting they're serving mystery meat. It's firmly in the realm of "you get what you pay for," and what you're paying for turns out to be worth it. The kind of place where you can have a proper meal or just nurse a pint in the corner while pretending to write your novel.

Let's be clear - The Sun In Splendour in London isn't reinventing the wheel. It's not trying to be the next big thing in gastropubs or claim some revolutionary take on British cuisine. Instead, it's doing something far more valuable: executing the classics with genuine care and competence, maintaining standards that make you realize how many other places are just phoning it in.

I hate to admit it, but this corner of Notting Hill has got itself a proper pub. Whether you're in for a quick pint, a Sunday roast, or an evening of pretending you're a local, The Sun In Splendour delivers without showboating. Book ahead for Sunday lunch - turns out I'm not the only one who's begrudgingly fallen for its charms. Just don't tell them I sent you. I have a reputation to maintain.