George and Vulture

Historic London Pub with Unforgettable Charm

The George and Vulture, tucked away in a shadowy alley off Lombard Street, feels like stepping into a history book with stained pages—vintage, slightly musty but rich with untold stories. This timeworn establishment boasts patronage since 1142 and whispers of the Hell-Fire Club's notorious antics. Rest assured, this is the kind of place where Dickens himself likely spilled some ale onto his manuscript. The venue's quirky charm begins at the entrance: navigating labyrinthine corridors feels more Choose Your Own Adventure than reality, adding a sprinkle of curiosity to your curiosity. Inside, it's your quintessential London gin parlour replete with fireplaces and peculiar portraits as if waiting for Dickens’s ghost to join you for a pint of Samuel Smith's finest. Staff here are refreshingly down-to-earth, exuding warmth to match the hearty crackle of burning charcoal in the fireplace.

As for the gastronomy, it oscillates like a Victorian pendulum between heartening and oh-look-there's-cabbage levels of disappointment, skewing delightfully where well-executed—think Barnsley chop and treacly toffee pudding that would soothe quite anyone contemplating another century of existential dread. Alas, wander too far into disappointland, and carbonised bangers might await next to veg sans flavour, reminders that not all relics improve with age. Yet, the Shakespearean comedy of errors even extends to the wine selection, offering precisely one red and one white; simplicity itself, achingly rustic. Fellow patrons vary—city gents in repose, hearty American tourists delightfully fumbling over the idea of ‘real ale’. But the soul of this Chaucerian anomaly lies in its steadfast antiquity; any longing glances towards modern sensibilities relatively unreturned, which, dear reader, only augments its defiant charm. For those craving an authentic drinking hall where plot twist and poetic license blend seamlessly—indeed, this is the tavern time forgot. — Penelope Savory