The Cavendish, Marylebone

Dog-Friendly Pub with Unforgettable Cocktails

Ah, The Cavendish—a splendid slice of gastro-pub life nestled in the proud heart of Marylebone, sitting ever-so-composed like an actor unsure whether they’re performing Hamlet or a fiscally-driven telenovela. On my visit, the place charmed its way into my affections like a Smythson diary left open on a granite kitchen counter. The decor whispers tasteful comfort—a sumptuous blend of exposed brickwork meets cobalt-blue verve, with retro nods to Bowie achieving what can only be described as an ambiance caterwauling genres. Embarking deftly on my pub-crawl-turned-campaign to financially buoy The Cavendish’s fervent commitment to transformation into a convivial court of royalty, I was edified with a pint of Kirin Lager. Ah, London lager! Enough to make my distant Yorkshire ancestors perform somersaults in their unspent graves at the sight of an eye-watering £8.44.

Crucially, while specifics of my foregone meal evade me, courteous nods must be paid to the gorgeous servers, a swirling maelstrom of politeness clad in impeccable sartorial decisions, whisking through the clandestine aroma of truffle-doused French fries. One does find though, a kind of balletic charm in receiving food recommendations with twirling Aperol incantations, gracefully arrowed through the air by server James, producing drinks urging one to question simply: “Why has gin not always been anaesthetised with aloe vera?” Truly, dining here encapsulated an exaltation. Savouring cocktails bordering alchemy rather than chemistry, it dawned upon me that one frequents The Cavendish not simply for the feast—you come for delicious symphonies of flavours crescendoing through every course. Yes, expect eyebrow-raising expenses, but revel in theatrical service and dishes that could conjure illusions of exceptional gastronomy even amidst plate spillage epics and occasionally tepid mains. Overall—it is a polished pearl, both curiously warm and luxuriously ephemeral. I shall return, if inclined by nostalgia or nearer paycheques, until economics suggest reminiscence remains gilded enough. — Penelope Savory