The Vine

Just what Northwest London needed - another Greene King pub masquerading as a craft beer haven. The Vine in London's Kentish Town had me rolling my eyes before I even crossed the threshold. You know the type: Edwardian bones dressed up in contemporary clothing, like your gran trying to pull off athleisure wear. But damn it all if this place hasn't wormed its way into my cynical heart.

Let's address the elephant in the room - yes, The Vine London is part of a chain. Usually, that's enough to send me running for the nearest independent drinking hole. But somewhere between the exposed brick walls and that gleaming Dunville's mirror, something rather unexpected happened. I found myself... enjoying it. There, I said it. Write the date down.

The space itself is what estate agents would call "deceptively large," which typically means "smaller than advertised." But in this case, it's actually true. The main bar area opens up like a Russian nesting doll of drinking spaces, each one more surprising than the last. Through an arch, you'll find yourself in what might be London's least pretentious atrium-lit dining room. And just when you think you've seen it all, there's a raised section with shuffleboard tables, because apparently, we're all secretly Canadian now.

The beer selection is... actually decent. I know, I'm as shocked as you are. While you'll find your obligatory London craft offerings, they've managed to curate a list that walks the line between "I recognize that" and "ooh, what's that?" Their cask ale game is admittedly limited, but what they do have is kept well enough to satisfy all but the most militant CAMRA enthusiasts.

Food-wise, they're doing that modern pub thing where the prices make you wince until the plates arrive. £18.50 for fish and chips had me reaching for my smelling salts, but when it landed, the portion size alone could feed a small family of particularly hungry seagulls. The Sunday roasts - and I say this through gritted teeth - are actually worth dragging yourself out of bed for, assuming you can get a table. Book ahead, you've been warned.

The front patio garden is a particular triumph, managing to be both sun-trapped and sheltered from the urban chaos of Kentish Town. It's the kind of space where you plan to have "just one" and end up watching the sun set while debating the meaning of life with strangers who've become your best friends over the past four hours.

Service walks that fine line between attentive and hovering, though during peak times you might need to deploy your most polite "British person trying to catch a waiter's attention" wave. The staff seem genuinely pleased to be there, which is either excellent acting or good management - I'm choosing to believe the latter.

What really gets me is how they've managed to preserve the soul of a proper London boozer while catering to the inevitable march of gentrification. The Vine has pulled off that most difficult of tricks: appealing to both the old guard who've been drinking here since the '80s and the young professionals who wouldn't know a proper pint if it introduced itself with a handwritten CV.

Look, I didn't want to like The Vine London. I wanted to dismiss it as another soulless corporate attempt to cash in on the gastropub trend. But here I am, recommending you make the trek to NW5, ideally after a ramble on Hampstead Heath when you've earned your pint. Book ahead for Sunday lunch, bring your dog (they're welcome), and for heaven's sake, give the shuffleboard a go - it's surprisingly addictive once you've had a few.

Just don't blame me when you find yourself becoming a regular. I tried to maintain my professional cynicism, but The Vine broke me. And you know what? I'm actually okay with that.