Chef’s Favourite: The Pelican in Notting Hill, London

London has Michelin stars, food halls packed with vendors, and overpriced omakase that leaves you hungry. For us, it’s always been about the pubs. The ones that stick to their roots and the ones that take pub food and make it something worth remembering. Clapham for fun. Wimbledon for cozy. Wembley for Indian that makes your forehead sweat. But Notting Hill? That was the one we were most excited for.

Do we love the movie? Yes. Did we take a picture in front of the blue door? Also yes. But this wasn’t about nostalgia. We wanted to see if this affluent, postcard-perfect neighborhood was all for show or if it had real substance. And we’d heard the food scene was buzzing. One place in particular was on our radar. A gastropub with a reputation for British classics done differently…The Pelican.

We picked it because, if the hype were real, it would be casual but special. The kind of place where you can split a bottle of wine, steal a few bites off each other’s plates, and pretend you’re in a Richard Curtis film (if you’re lucky).

Five minutes before the doors opened, there was already a line. Some had reservations. Some were gambling. Londoners don’t queue well. A polite people? Sure. But when it comes to getting a seat at a busy restaurant, it’s every person for themselves. A quiet battle of who-can-look-most-entitled-to-their-spot.

Inside, The Pelican was all wood, all charm, all light. A massive space that somehow still felt warm. A quiet dart board hanging on the wall. The bar was already chaos. The bartender was drowning in orders. Martinis to shake. Beers to pour. Questions to answer. He ran out of ice. Had to go get more. Honestly? It made the whole thing feel even better. He didn’t really care about it all, and we loved that for him. There was a charm to it.

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We ordered dry martinis, dirty. They were lovely. When we finally got our table, we were told we could sit outside. Mainly because no one else wanted to. It was cold, but hey, we’re Canadian. The kind of cold that would send a Londoner running for a coat felt like patio weather to us. The sun came out. People followed. Within twenty minutes, it was packed outside. A couple on their second bottle of wine after shopping. A guy who looked like he owned half of Notting Hill ordered “just a few” oysters and a steak and kidney pie.

We took our time with the menu. Handwritten specials. Short but smart selection. We drooled over it like we were from Canada and travelled an hour by train just to get there. Spider crab toast. Onglet steak with peppercorn sauce. By the time the server took our menus, we already knew.

The Pelican’s menu is London, through and through. Classic dishes, but sharpened. No gimmicks. No unnecessary flourishes. Just quality ingredients and smart execution. This is new London cooking as it should be, or at least, how we wanted it…the kind that takes fish, jowls, beans, bones, and wild vegetables and treats them with respect. Nothing groundbreaking, but everything thoughtful and bold. The dishes feel both familiar and exciting. The kind that doesn’t cost a week’s rent but still makes you feel like you’re eating somewhere special.

Take the Veal Sweetbread with Wild Garlic: a Michelin-level dish, but one that makes perfect sense in a pub. Fried. Rich. Savoury. Exactly the kind of thing you want with a pint. Or the Onglet with Shallots: Even if you had no clue what it was, it just sounds incredible. (By the way, onglet is the French word for hanger steak. Now you know.) 

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Yes, there’s fried fish. Yes, there’s curry. But here, they go a step further. Cod’s Cheeks in Curry. A simple mash-up of the two, taking something traditional and making it interesting again. 

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Then there are the sides. Chips, mash, Cornish mids, Jerusalem artichokes, venison tartar. And because we have no restraint, we ordered basically all of the bar snacks to go with our afternoon martinis—followed by a bottle of Tim Wildman, Frolic Pet Nat sparkling wine from England & Wales (2022).

Carlingford Oysters. Pork Scratchings. Spider Crab Toast. Monkfish Scampi with Marie Rose. Old Winchester Fritters. If that lineup doesn’t scream London, then what does? It’s all pub food at its peak in rare form. 

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Our top picks? The Sausage Roll (the second-best we had in London—Borough Market still holds the crown). Welsh Rarebit (a rich, unapologetically brown mess of cheese and beer that somehow tastes more complex than it looks). And the Mince on Toast, which is wonderfulyl brown, just how the Brits like it.

Eating here was a masterclass in simple food done right.

London is a great city to eat in…if you have money to burn. The food is astronomically expensive. A solid burger and fries? £22 (or $40 if you’re used to paying in Canadian currency). A Sunday roast? It better be a good one (Flat Iron in Shoreditch nailed it). If you’re pub-hopping, we’d send you to Owl & Pussycat for a few Guinness or The Devonshire if you want to end up in Soho at 2 am making bad decisions. The price gap between “pretty good” and “amazing” food in London is massive. Shocking that London has class issues, right? In New York, you can still get world-class pasta at Via Carota for $30 a plate. In London? Not a chance.

Brat in Shoreditch was the “it” spot while we were there. The kind of place where you could be in a suit or dressed like a London hipster, eating incredible food while loud music blared. Paul Mescal and Gracie Abrams had one of their first dates there! A meal there? Well into the hundreds.

You want to pick your spots wisely in London. Where to visit. Where to eat.

At The Pelican in Notting Hill, you get the best of both. 

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