Mug House

£15 - £25 / Wine bars, British, Vegetarian options

1-3 Tooley St, London

Opening hours

12PM-10PM

Sunday Closed
Monday 12PM-9PM
Tuesday 12PM-10PM
Wednesday 12PM-10PM
Thursday 12PM-11PM
Friday 12PM-10PM
Saturday 12PM-10PM

Hidden Gem with Historic Charm and Whimsy

Cooking up a clandestine crop of historical charm under the hallowed spans of London Bridge, The Mug House is a delightful hidden gem that convincingly straddles the experience spectrum from Dickensian comfort den to modern-day wine haunt. Upon entry, one is plunged into the 18th-century feel with a glorious parade of oak-panelling and antique tchotchkes that look charmingly cluttered, though teetering on the edge of twee – but heck, that’s part of its winning charm. The atmosphere captures the incessant hum and warmth reminiscent of a wintery firelit pub gone endearing; it's the quaint snug you retreat to in your post-market Zen moments, where clunking pewter tankards and avuncular barstaff feel quite at home. Tucked away just off the bustling thoroughfares, you’ll find that the swathes of folk are met not with hurry, but with a fine blend of amiable bonhomie courtesy of staff whose greatest trick seems to be somehow making tourists and regulars all feel cosily local.

Dining here stands resolute in showcasing the tenacity of British gastronomy – dishes like a mountainous section of bangers and mash bathed in rich Madeira, or perhaps the beer-battered baseline of hake and chips, do all their comforting best to lure your taste upstairs from doses of historic ciders to reasonably-priced pinots. Even if the floor had waves any better befitting a moonlit barcarolle, it’d be hard to stumble much before needing to prove one's civil adoration by lingering later over "good grace" sticky toffee indulgences. Such a place could fritter hours persuading even the haltest guest what small pleasures conferencing all day with distinguished company might actually mean: a return invitation, carried on laughter, softened underfoot, beneath London Bridge do we bend our heads again – certainly too quaintly charismic to pass without promise. — Penelope Savory