The Lord Palmerston

33 Dartmouth Park Hill, Tuffnell Park, NW5 1HU

Metallica had their ‘Reload’ album. Shakespeare had his ‘Titus Andronicus’. Manchester United had their 2-0 loss to mediocre Fulham. It’s clear that even the greatest of greats have their off days and in the recession-weary world of pub ownership, it seems the champions, Geronimo Inns, have been slacking. Exhibit A: the Lord Palmerston in Tufnell Park.

Ordinarily, there wouldn’t much to gripe about because the ambience is filled with bellowing laughter, the service is as jolly as a Bank Holiday weekend, and the library of libations has the potential to break out into an unscheduled beer & wine festival. The trouble is, Geronimo have the same ideals about food as Alex Ferguson does about winning. A below par performance is simply unacceptable and, unfortunately, the nourishment at the Lord Palmerston is inhibiting its progress through the University of Geronimo.

The menu is surprisingly uninspiring, the specials board translates ‘special’ into ‘once lived in the sea’ (great for seafood lovers only), and there’s an obvious tendency to slap several French words onto ordinary English fare in an attempt to make it sound confusingly exotic. It desperately relies on its side dishes to provide the minerals, too; with kale and pumpkin demonstrating their super-sub status. Plus, the mash is sloppy, the chicken is so dry it’s almost crunchy, and the Guinness cake is an unfinished sugarless gloop that was made by an infant who wasn’t allowed to use Guinness.

But enough about the food because there ARE ways to actually enjoy this pub. For example, there’s separate areas to accommodate even the most fickle of fancies: the rear garden has been daubed with modernity, warmth and tranquility hither and thither, fo schither; and, if words like ‘leather’, ‘sedate’ and ‘shelves’ tickle your foo-foo, then The Palmerston’s open fire, cosy earth tones, comedy-sized lampshades and book-lined walls should have you grabbing your mountain of weekend papers in no time as the décor is dangerously close to turning homey, homie. There’s even a bright conservatory to read them in, so you don’t have to build one of your own.

Top marks should also be awarded for the plethora of peculiar objet d’Art (French for ‘bunch of weird stuff’) as well as the burly German, Belgian and Italian heavies crowding round the bar (the draughts). Plus, the extremely popular Wednesday night quiz has a strange knack of becoming more difficult as the night wears on (or as you drink more) and the wine list is a delightfully engaging yarn that should be read right to the end.

Due to its Hampstead Heath proximity and it’s familiar-slap-on-the-shoulder congeniality, the Lord Palmerston is agreeably Philip Schofield. If it weren’t for the contra-creative menu being so hit and miss, it would be joyously Terry Wogan. If you don’t live in the area, don’t bother. If you do, do.