The Metropolitan Bar

Historic Charm Meets Affordable London Prices

I recently found myself drawn by the irresistible gravitational pull of cheap pints and historical décor that is The Metropolitan Bar on Baker Street. This isn't just any watering hole; it’s an unabashedly grandiose Wetherspoons—where the legacy of earlier opulence amusingly dovetails with Spoons-enhanced frugality. You’re greeted by a magnificently vast room, the ceilings festooned with coats of arms potentially picked right from a museum close by. You get a feeling of walking through a bygone era where everyone was presumably entitled to a hearty round of toasts at jaw-dropping prices. And my word, are the prices eye-popping in not transplanting a chunk of cash from your wallet—is there anywhere else you could snag a meal and a drink combo without having to cut back on treats for the rest of the week?

As I burrowed my way through a decidedly enormous yet perfectly crispy pizza—not very befitting of its rapid-fast delivery time—I recognized another gem in this experience: the staff. Efficient, sometimes harried (likely due to one unlucky ground staff member being called John Oates when he really wasn't), but impressively courteous. Perhaps most compelling was their eagle-eyed vigilance; I've seldom witnessed staff this adept at spotting danger and stepping in swiftly, a reassuring sight given reports of the odd purse snatcher lurking about. Naturally, where better to enjoy your escapist moment with those delightful pub classics than a place where both pints and camaraderie flow easily? The Metropolitan Bar balances the scales between being resolutely a Wetherspoons yet an inviting anomaly where historic charm meets small indulgences at charmingly un-London prices. It's clear crowds dependably flock for relatable food and grand settings, with drinks served so cold they could mitigate even the fiercest heated principalities. And though your ears might be left ringing with echo-laden tales from other tables, the spirited ambiance alone deserves a toast—but perhaps refrain from too many Tess Ciders on a Sunday eve. Cheers. — Penelope Savory