The word “Islington” occupies the same space in the British prejudicial psyche as ‘liberal’ seems to in the USA. Woolly political beliefs married with lazy privilege create a delightful package that our inland peers delight in hating. But then, they would, wouldn’t they, because provincial capitals are awash with beer barns and mediocre ‘fine dining’ shitpits, whereas in the heart of nobby north London, you find idiosyncratic nooks and crannies with a fully realised sense of purpose and history – and where we also find a pub that makes its mark in every suitable way.

How is this picture on the internet? It's just rubbish. Oh, I remember. I took it.

Tucked away down a side street, surrounded by stolid terraced houses that must fetch around a million these days, the CL is a two-roomed, well-groomed checklist of what is decent and honourable in today’s pubs: a range of interesting draught ales and ciders, along with fashionable wheat beers; a great wine list; a pub dog; hot, unpackaged bar snacks; minimal standing room, neatly avoiding the possibility of Friday evening fools bellowing the house down; and finally, homely, keenly priced yet impeccable food.

Possessed of a reactionary tic, your reviewer nearly elbowed the door shut and fled on the sight of such well-lacquered comfort. Happily, though, he stuck around for a fulsome fish pie and a few pints of delicious ale, and summised that here was a Good Thing. And by god, they are few and far between in this district full of posers and champagne socialists etc etc etc…