The White Horse

Just what London needs - another pub calling itself The White Horse. Because apparently "The Crown," "The King's Arms," and "The Red Lion" were all taken. I stumbled into this particular White Horse expecting the usual: sticky floors, mediocre pints, and those peculiar regulars who seem to have grown into their barstools like particularly determined barnacles.

But damn it all if this place hasn't managed to charm me against my better judgment. Located in a city that seems determined to turn every proper boozer into a craft beer temple or a gastropub that serves deconstructed fish and chips on slate tiles, The White Horse in London has somehow threaded the needle between tradition and actually being good.

Let's talk about the cocktails, shall we? During happy hour (which stretches generously until 8 PM, as if they're actually interested in making people happy), they do a two-for-one deal that had me suspicious. In my experience, discount cocktails usually taste like they were mixed by someone whose only qualification was once watching "Cocktail" on VHS. But these? These are properly made drinks that don't hint at tomorrow's headache with every sip.

The food menu had me rolling my eyes initially - another pub thinking it can elevate bar snacks into something Instagram-worthy. Yet here I am, practically writing love sonnets about their Philly cheesesteak sandwich. The beef tacos, served as part of their small plates menu, are good enough to make me temporarily forget I'm in London rather than Mexico City. And the fish and chips? Well, let's just say Chef Manu deserves whatever they're paying him, and probably more.

The space itself is refreshingly honest. Yes, it's a bit dark inside, but show me a proper London pub that isn't trying to hide at least three centuries of questionable decisions under mood lighting. There are pool tables that haven't been sacrificed to make room for more Instagram-friendly seating arrangements. The TVs are positioned so you can actually watch sports without developing a neck condition, which seems like a low bar but you'd be surprised how many places get this wrong.

What really gets me, though, is the staff. Barbra and Collette, among others, manage to deliver that increasingly rare combination of efficiency and genuine warmth that makes you feel like you've been coming here for years, even if it's your first visit. They're knowledgeable without being pretentious, friendly without forcing it, and actually seem to enjoy their jobs - which in the London hospitality scene is about as rare as an affordable pint.

Speaking of affordable - the prices here are almost suspicious. In a city where you typically need to remortgage your house for a night out, The White Horse keeps things surprisingly reasonable. The five small plates deal is actually enough food to share, and the cocktail prices won't make you want to switch to tap water halfway through the evening.

They've even managed to create that elusive thing called "atmosphere" - you know, where people actually talk to each other instead of just staring at their phones. I've witnessed complete strangers joining forces for impromptu pool tournaments, which in London is practically a miracle on par with getting a seat on the Central Line during rush hour.

For those keeping score at home: yes, they take cards (including contactless), have decent paid street parking nearby, and - brace yourselves - actually welcome dogs. Because apparently, they're determined to tick every box on the "Things That Make A Pub Properly Decent" checklist.

Look, I didn't want to like The White Horse. London has enough pubs that think they're special because they serve food that isn't just crisps and nuts. But here I am, recommending you visit this place, like some sort of hospitality turncoat. Go for the happy hour, stay for the food, and accept that sometimes, just sometimes, a London pub can surprise you. Just don't all rush there at once - I still need somewhere to get my Philly cheesesteak fix without queuing around the block.