The Devonshire, W1

This small Soho pub near Piccadilly Circus is one of numerous Taylor Walker branded pubs in the area belonging to the Punch PubCo. I’ll openly admit that I find Taylor Walker (and Punch) pubs more than little dull, functional and in the West End, not much more than an interpretation of a traditional pub steered toward the tourist trade. That said, the Devonshire is a little cosier than some thanks to its small interior and, on my visit, friendlier than average West End bar service. First established in 1793, it was, according to the blurb outside, one of the few buildings left standing in the area after WW2. The single room ground floor is much of a muchness for the West End with bare floors (tiled around the bar area), paneled windows, high tables and chairs and no real focal point of interest. Bland music acted as little more than a backdrop. Upstairs is a dining room that was apparently once a regular hang out for gangland bosses. There is what I would describe as a tourist choice of beers and food, the 4 ales being very formulaic (London Pride, Old Speckled Hen, Youngs London Gold and Spitfire) and nothing you coudn’t find elsewhere within a hundred yard radius (and even then it will probably be another Taylor Walker pub). On the plus side the prices are a bit more realistic than some West End pubs with my London Gold costing £3.25. Quality was fine also. Main courses on the menu were around £7-9 with a few specials on a blackboard displayed in the corner. There isn’t really much here to either attract or deter any potential customers and it probably suffers for being in the heart of the West End among dozens of similarly pitched pubs. If it were in a less concentrated area and had a more adventurous beer policy it would certainly have more appeal than it does.

I had a suspiciously quickly poured pint of Pride in here which tasted distinctly odd. I challenged the barmaid as to whether she had topped up a pint that was sitting behind the bar and she said that she had before going and topping up the already brimming pint – a bit of a language barrier there. I decided to drink at the side of the bar and noticed another half full pint glass sitting in a drip tray and a couple of empty trays, one of which was Pride. I'm no Poirot, but I saw enough to warrant myself leaving my beer and the pub never to return again.