The Talbot

Ah yes, The Talbot in London - another pub claiming to be the city's hidden gem, as if we needed another watering hole in a metropolis already drowning in mediocre establishments serving lukewarm ale and questionably crispy roast potatoes. At least, that's what I thought before being dragged there by friends who insisted I was being "unnecessarily cynical." I hate it when they're right.

Nestled in a surprisingly pleasant corner of London, The Talbot has managed to do something rather annoying - it's actually good. The sort of good that makes you question your carefully cultivated cynicism about London pubs. The kind of good that forces you to eat your words along with their surprisingly excellent Sunday roast.

Let's talk about that roast for a moment, shall we? Because if you're going to judge a London pub, you might as well start with the holy grail of British cuisine. The Yorkshire puddings are the size of small planets, and unlike most places that serve these inflated dough monuments, these are actually properly cooked - crispy on the outside, properly hollow within, not those dense hockey pucks that pass for Yorkshires in lesser establishments.

The beef (when they get it right, which is more often than I'd like to admit) arrives at that precise point between pink and done that makes you wonder if they've secretly hired a beef psychic. The roast potatoes - and I can't believe I'm saying this - actually achieve that mythical balance of crispy exterior and fluffy interior that most pubs promise but deliver about as reliably as London's weather forecast.

What's particularly vexing about The Talbot is how they've managed to nail the atmosphere. It's not trying too hard to be a "traditional London pub," yet somehow captures exactly what that should mean. The space strikes that infuriating balance between cozy and spacious, with enough nooks for privacy but sufficient open areas to prevent claustrophobia. The outdoor seating area is particularly pleasant, assuming London's infamous weather decides to cooperate.

The staff, frustratingly enough, seem genuinely interested in making sure you're having a good time, rather than just performing the usual London pub ritual of barely tolerating your existence. They remember your drinks, offer actual useful recommendations, and - most shocking of all - seem to enjoy their jobs. It's almost suspicious.

Speaking of drinks, the beer selection is solid without being pretentious, and their cocktails don't try to reinvent the wheel with unnecessary theatrics or bizarre ingredient combinations. The wine list is actually decent, which for a London pub is about as common as a quick commute on the Northern Line.

Price-wise, it sits in that sweet spot where you can't quite complain but can't quite celebrate either. You're paying London prices, sure, but at least here you're getting London quality to match. The food costs what you'd expect for a decent pub meal in the capital - which is to say, more than you'd like, but not enough to make you consider a second mortgage.

They take reservations, which in London's pub scene is becoming about as rare as a taxi driver who knows where they're going without GPS. Book ahead for Sunday roast unless you enjoy the unique pleasure of watching other people eat while your stomach performs an impromptu protest symphony.

Dog-friendly, group-friendly, and equipped with that most essential of London pub features - actually functional heating in winter - The Talbot has managed to tick boxes I didn't even know needed ticking. They've even got those contactless payment things that make spending money dangerously effortless.

Look, I didn't want to like The Talbot. London has enough "proper pubs" that turn out to be all Instagram and no substance. But here we are - I'm actually recommending you visit. Book a table, order a roast, and prepare to join me in the uncomfortable position of having to admit when something genuinely deserves its reputation. Just don't tell them I sent you - I have a cynical reputation to maintain.