The star of the evening was the English burger with farmhouse cheddar and brown sauce. The meat was a perfect medium rare where some restaurants overcook, the cheese an excellent pairing, the brioche-esque bun golden delicious, and the Belgian-frite-style fries delightfully seasoned that could only be improved by dipping them in the brown sauce. Dessert was English sticky toffee pudding with buttermilk gelato. Although I may never understand why date cake is called toffee pudding, it was dense and flavorful; a lovely end to the meal.

The bathrooms—potentially a make-or-break element of an otherwise undecided savvy restaurant-goer’s experience—were unisex and nothing special. The sinks were either intentionally distressed or had been rescued from imminent curbside garbage pickup. Either way, they succeeded only in making the bathroom look trashy. It was variously referred to at my table as an “imitation dive bar” bathroom and “rusty on purpose,” a quality whose supposed coolness was clearly lost on us squares. The poor condition was mere illusion, however; everything worked perfectly well.

The E.U. fancies itself a gastropub, but has yet to earn its “gastro,” as far as I’m concerned. The restaurant’s greatest appeal lies in its simple pub fare. Perhaps the nations of the European Monetary Union should secede from the restaurant and leave the Brits with their pounds, their pudding, and their pride. – J.G.