The Engle Field

Incredible Roasts and Cozy Vibes Await

Ah, The Engle Field in Islington—a quaint bastion of gastro-pubbery that dares to tantalize the weary traveler with its majestic offerings yet occasionally leaves one pondering: were the beer taps aligned with the lunar cycle, or was it merely a rogue sunspot causing the spectral variations in our evening's fare? Upon crossing the threshold, although greeted by an affable chap who assured us of being effortlessly seated, we witnessed a performance in 'waiting for roast' that rivaled any Beckett play. Nonetheless, once the succulent beef decided to reveal itself, transcendent stories of good Guinness emerged, as advertised by locals more fervently than a town crier announcing a new ale.

Now, concerning their fabled brunch escapades: one finds delight in exploring such acclaimed variety before tucking into a dish that cunningly balances veracity with valor in portion sizes. Credit where credit’s due—the eggs Benedict demand commendation so profound, even the ghosts of brunch past might mutter in agreement. Yet, forego the familiar allure of the twiggy chairs lest you exit before deciding on dessert's splendorous delights; there's an irony woven into the cozy adversity here that's far more titillating than troubling. So, whilst navigating through occasional blips of ambiance (Notably, those truly avant-garde and aromatic lavatories), Engle Field emerges mostly splendid and awaits your next foray alongside Marcus—patron saint of effortless laughter—all hidden within Islington's charming tapestry. — Penelope Savory