Rugby Tavern — Restaurant in London

Unfulfilled potential.

We went in for a Sunday afternoon lunch. It was fairly quiet but the vibes of the place are great. Nice and quiet, one tv screen away from the seating so you aren’t mixed in with people watching the sport.

The chaps behind the bar were very friendly and speedy in service. We ordered a black pudding scotch egg (£6.50) and prawn tempura (£6.50) to start with fish and chips (£14) and a beef roast with stuffing (£21.50) for mains. I had a Hawkstone lager (£7.50) and my partner had a lager shandy (£4).

Unfortunately it really started to go downhill when the food started arriving. The prawns were fine but the scotch egg had clearly been under the heat lamp for a long time, yolk was solid and the exposed parts of the sausage meat were hard and dry. I asked for a fresh one and the waiter returned with the same one saying the chef had “run out of eggs”. I was offered a free pint seeing as I had already paid for everything which I didn’t want but appreciated the gesture.

The mains arrived and the roast was okay, nothing special but good. Beef cooked nicely and trimming a bit lacking. The stuffing was hard and dry and cold. We didn’t bother asking for a replacement assuming the chef had run out of stuffing too.

The fish and chips were a mixed bag, the peas were nice but cold. The chips were great, proper chunky chips with good crisp. The fish was a let down as it had been slightly under cooked meaning the batter was pretty damp and very thin.

Overall not a fantastic experience but almost entirely let down by a seemingly lazy kitchen. There were only four tables so it cannot have been overwork that caused the slip. The price did not reflect the quality but with some effort from the kitchen this could be a fantastic value...

If you are into ill mannered surly staff, a cold atmosphere and over priced mediocre food, this is a spot for you!

Quintin, who I assume was the bar manager greeted our party with something bordering on disdain, as if custom was the least likely thing he would expect in a pub in Central London. I had to ask him how he was, assuming he had just been informed by the vet his favourite pet bearded dragon had been diagnosed with athletes foot, given the expression on his face.

I asked if it was okay for us to have something to eat (then enquired about menus). No proffered specials or guidance, just one menu thrown on the bar infront of us (we were a party of three). I found another sticky menu on the end of the bar.

Having been given some drinks by Quincy grudgingly, we went outside to the, tbh, lovely seating area. Can't complain.

Perused the limited menu, but sufficient and placed my order at the bar for all three of us. This seemed to be a problem for Quincy too. Perhaps he shouldn't be in the hospitality trade? The story continues below.

Our food comes, and the first thing that happens is the topping from my bun falls off before being placed infront of me. Quincy looks like he might flip the table. I say "it's fine, it just landed on the seat" I don't want to be part of a triple murder case as the victim today because of a brioche bun. He whisks my burger back to the kitchen to get a new lid. That's nice. Forgets to get it toasted. Small niggle, but it is £19, I expect it to be the ducks nuts.

The food is passable, but not memorable, other than the croquettes but not for a good reason. They need to be removed from the menu as my 4 year old understands seasoning and balance of texture better than who ever sculpted these, I...

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ If you’re thirsty for a pint and a story, Josh is your man.

I don’t know if Josh is technically a bartender or some kind of mythological spirit trapped behind the taps of the Rugby Tavern until he pours the perfect pint—but whatever the case, the man’s a genius.

I wandered in one rainy Tuesday (or was it a Thursday? There was a pigeon in a tuxedo involved—hard to say) and found myself staring down the barrel of a terrible day. Enter Josh, with a knowing look and a mop of hair that suggested both mild chaos and artisanal flair. Within moments, he’d whipped up what he called “The Disappointing Ex,” a cocktail consisting of gin, vague regret, and a twist of lime that somehow made me feel whole again.

But that’s not the half of it.

At some point during the night, a rogue magician wandered in (standard Holborn), challenged Josh to a duel, and—without breaking a sweat—Josh defeated him using only a swizzle stick and an unopened packet of pork scratchings. Everyone applauded. A woman cried. A fox walked past the door and nodded in respect.

He once made a pint so perfect it reversed my friend’s receding hairline. Another time, he explained the entire plot of Tenet using only beer coasters and a half-eaten scotch egg.

But the pièce de résistance? Josh somehow convinced a group of seven City boys that Guinness Zero was actually a rare Irish stout brewed by monks on a floating island in the North Atlantic. They spent £300 and left chanting in Latin.

The man is part bartender, part therapist, part street poet, and possibly a distant cousin of Dionysus. If he ever runs for office, I’ll vote for him. Twice.

Go for the drinks. Stay...