Tom Cribb

Just what London needs - another historic pub trying to cash in on its boxing heritage. The Tom Cribb in London's theatre district has been riding the coattails of its namesake bare-knuckle boxing champion since seemingly the dawn of time. And yes, before you ask, I rolled my eyes when I first pushed open that weathered door, bracing myself for yet another tourist trap trading on ye olde British charm.

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

Perhaps it was the moment I realized the staff actually knew their beers - a rare feat in central London these days, where most bartenders look at you blankly if you dare ask anything beyond "lager or ale?" The cask selection is thoughtfully curated, and when I cornered the bartender about the Spitfire, she launched into an enthusiastic discourse that wasn't just rehearsed promotional drivel.

The boxing memorabilia plastering the walls could easily veer into theme-park territory, but there's something genuinely captivating about the old photographs and fight bills. They've managed to strike that delicate balance between celebrating history and avoiding kitsch - though I'm sure some marketing consultant is itching to get their hands on the place and "optimize the heritage experience" or some such nonsense.

Let's address the elephant in the room - yes, the drinks prices will make your wallet wince. Welcome to central London, where apparently every pint must be made with water blessed by the Archbishop of Canterbury. But here's the thing: while you're paying West End prices, you're getting an authentic pub experience rather than some soulless chain's idea of what a British pub should be.

The fish and chips - which I ordered purely out of journalistic duty, mind you - turned out to be irritatingly good. The batter was crisp enough to shatter satisfyingly, the cod inside perfectly flaky, and the chips actually tasted of potato rather than whatever oil they'd been swimming in for the past three days. I hate when pub food exceeds expectations - it makes cynicism so much harder to maintain.

The upstairs room has become something of a local secret for private events, though I suppose it won't be very secret after this review. It's an unexpected gem for gatherings, managing to feel both intimate and spacious enough that you won't be sitting in your aunt's lap during family celebrations. The staff handles events with surprising competence, which is more than I can say for most London pubs where "private function" usually means they'll reluctantly move a few chairs around and point you toward the crisps.

Dog-friendly without being overrun by four-legged patrons, good for watching sports without descending into hooliganism, and blessed with that most rare of qualities in central London - actual regulars who aren't just lost tourists. The Tom Cribb has somehow managed to maintain its local pub soul while surviving in the heart of theatre land.

The centuries-old building has all the character you'd expect, with enough wooden beams to make a health and safety inspector nervous. But unlike many historic London pubs, they haven't felt the need to point out every ancient floorboard with a brass plaque and accompanying audio guide.

Look, I wanted to dismiss the Tom Cribb as just another London pub trading on its history. I really did. But somewhere between the knowledgeable staff, the well-kept ales, and the surprisingly decent food, I found myself becoming one of those irritating people who actually recommends places to others. If you're in the Piccadilly area and in need of a proper pub - not a tourist trap, not a chain, but a genuine London boozer with both history and heart - I suppose I must grudgingly suggest you give it a try. Just don't tell them I sent you. I have a reputation to maintain.