You’ve probably heard that the English aren’t known for their food, but that’s a damn lie. They are, it’s just that they’re known for it being gloriously bad. It’s telling that their biggest contribution to global cuisine is the gastropub, which, like most things beginning with “gastro,” can be off-putting. As with all rules, though, there are exceptions. The eminently snug Andrew Edmunds is one of them. Located on Lexington Street in the heart of Soho since 1985, it’s a bulwark of that neighborhood’s old school. Unlike most of the country’s pubs, and in defiance of its inky exterior, Andrew Edmunds is pleasantly lit, especially at night when candles pressed into old wine bottles give a gentle glow to buttery walls and ashen faces. The wine list is good and fairly priced, the staff amiable, and the menu, which is scrawled out by hand and changes daily, exactly what you want to eat: simply prepared fishes and meats, light salads, and deceptively flavorful sautéed greens. It all makes sense when you know that the place owes its name to the recently departed art dealer. His spirit endures by way of the steady stream of literary folk who come for the Academy Club, which is upstairs and shares a menu. And what better way to have your name live on than in one of London’s most romantic spots? More desirable than, say, having it attached to a pub called the Horse’s Ass. —Nathan King