The Local

We have witnessed many a pub takeover in recent years. The classic English boozer has proved a tricky institution to uphold through rising business rates, post-Covid closures and changing drinking habits. Yet somewhere along the way, the pub has been glamorised. Particularly out west, many have been given the full treatment: sticky floors stripped back and parquet laid, interiors polished and muted and the regulars joined, or rather replaced, by a sea of white shirts and gilets drinking craft IPAs. The pub is back, but sometimes you have to wonder where the actual pub went.

The Latimer, thankfully, still kinda feels like one. Sitting on Latimer Road, near the looming Westway, there are still scampi fries behind the bar and an easy familiarity that can’t really be designed into an interior. During my visit, locals wandered in to meet friends, introducing husbands and partners to the bar staff as they arrived. Nobody appeared particularly concerned with being seen there (a true rarity at this point). Increasingly, that kind of authenticity is something we hold in very high regard.

Which isn’t to say The Latimer isn’t serious about its food. Quite the opposite. Behind it is something of a London hospitality dynasty: Jon Spiteri was an original partner in The French House Dining Room, St John and Sessions Arts Club, while Melanie Arnold co-founded Rochelle Canteen. Their sons Lorcan and Fin are behind Caravel, while daughter Molly works at Koya. This time, the whole family has come together, with Lorcan heading up the kitchen and Fin overseeing drinks and front of house. A true family affair, a phrase which, applied to my own family, would promise an altogether less harmonious dining experience.

We began, appropriately, with a drink. The Westway, named after the great stretch of concrete I had just walked beneath to get there, was an immediate favourite, before a plate of pickles arrived, delightfully tangy and sour, keeping us occupied while we awaited the starters. Our waiter insisted on the cider-braised pork belly skewers and, respectfully, we listened. Thankfully so: sticky, salty and sweet, they were everything you might hope for from pork belly and more. For mains, the onglet kept things classic, but a scattering of marinated seasonal tomatoes and green sauce cut through the richness, making a familiar pub order feel rather fresh.

Perhaps that is what The Latimer gets right. London doesn’t particularly need another restaurant masquerading as a pub, nor does the pub need saving by making it shinier, smarter or less like itself. Here, the cooking can be accomplished without the room becoming stuffy; you can make a reservation for dinner or simply walk in for a drink. The furniture is recycled and the crockery reclaimed, all adding to the feeling that this is an establishment with a past, rather than a newly fitted approximation of one.

There is excellent food, great drinks and enough polish where it matters. But there are also Scampi Fries behind the bar. Long may they remain.