The Bull is a pretty substandard pub which seems to be in the midst of some sort of identity crisis. Look at it in real life and you see a dark, grubby little public house complete with sticky flooring and dusty sofas. Look at its website, or indeed its menus, and you see a snazzy London gastropub where you might reasonably expect a decent Sunday Roast. This is not the case.
The beginnings of Sunday lunch at The Bull were not wholly awful. We tried some olives, black pudding and whitebait. These were all pleasant. We scoffed them all up, excited for the roasts that were to come. We needn’t have been.
A meal masquerading as a Sunday Roast then arrived. It was no such thing. It was a plate of dried out and sad looking slices of meat, vegetables that had withered away and died many moons previously, and three tiddly roast potatoes that were actively offensive. Aunt Bessie made them. The Bull did not. The Bull is a liar and a beast. We also ordered cauliflower cheese which was gross and looked like an infant had been unwell all over it, but then it always does so we can’t blame the Bull too much for that.
The Caesar salad was also a bit under par. The chicken was all dried out and probably from one of those packets of sandwich meat you get from Tesco’s. The anchovies were not spread out enough, they were an anchovy blob. The dressing was definitely from a jar. In short I could have made it myself, and it would have been cheaper and better and more exciting and I wouldn’t have had to go to Islington to eat it.
The Verdict: Don’t bother, really.