You’d expect a place this scruffy to serve a sad, microwaveable pie. Wrong. The Nags Head does genuinely excellent pub grub. The fish and chips is a revelation—a massive slab of cod that hangs over the plate like a fishy blanket, with chips that are crisp and golden, practically singing hymns of grease.
The Sunday roast is the stuff of legend. It’s the kind of meal that makes you slap the table and say, “Oh, Lordy, that’s good,” while gravy dribbles down your chin. And the Yorkshire puddings are the size of a human head. I am not kidding. You could use one as a hat in an emergency.
The Top 10 Mews Pubs In London - Untapped New York
Why You Must Go
In a city of soulless gastropubs with Edison bulbs and artisanal gin menus, The Nags Head is a beautiful, dusty rebel. It refuses to be chic. It refuses to be Instagrammable. It’s a pub that demands you sit, drink, and talk to a stranger about the weather, their dog, or why the floor slopes at a 15-degree angle.
You can order a pint of real ale for a price that won’t make you weep—a miracle considering you’re two streets away from a Prada store. It’s like finding a fox in a ballroom: completely wrong, but absolutely magnificent.
