The Clarence

Outstanding British Fare near Iconic Landmarks

Amidst the bustling theatres and monuments of central London, tucked charmingly into a corner of Whitehall, I revisited a renowned culinary bastion that promises quintessential British comfort and unapologetic hospitality—the kind that enveloped me like a warm hug amidst the notorious drizzly gloom. There's something delightfully contrarian about a place that offers English cuisine so good it nearly sways hardened Londoners and bemused tourists alike into cozy submission. The service was genuinely outstanding, akin to a beloved old sitcom, where names like James, Marcus, and Judith dropped in like familiar guest stars transforming standard dining into memorable experiences. Yet, there was the odd tardy delivery or mistaken order that reminded us of humanity’s–or at least waitstaff’s—fallibility, rendered almost charming by their earnest attempts at rectification.

Dinner accolades must surely be piled upon the venerable fish and chips; I fondly recall it arriving with just the right measure of grease authentication. Likewise, the Sunday Roast struck a poetic balance somewhere between sustenance and revelation. Maria seemed radiantly omnipresent, her expertise visibly steering the ship through a sea of satisfied groans and wistful murmurings, interspersed with laughter echoing across polished tables. Yes, the area joins hands with Westminster boastfully demanding pennies stricter than the Queen’s Guard, yet most diners—myself included—walk away richer for having indulged. My sense left stimulated, palate sated, defective objectivity mildly assaulted, but spirit struck anew by the warmth of a true London pub. Raymond Chandler was quite wrong; dead men certainly do not reflect on such serenades. — Penelope Savory