There was a time when going out for dinner at the local pub felt like a treat. A little reward for not being a total underachiever, perhaps. But these days, more often than not, I find myself sitting at a table, staring into the abyss of a flavourless £18 main course, wondering why I didn’t just stay at home and make beans on toast with a cheeky splash of paprika for excitement.

Where Did It All Go Wrong?

Let’s be honest: pub food has become overpriced, under-seasoned, and depressingly predictable. It’s as if the kitchen is staffed by people who once watched half a MasterChef episode, thought, “that looks easy,” and then proceeded to make a career out of boiling things until the joy left their bodies.

Recently, I ordered what was billed as a “rustic, hearty fish casserole.” Sounds good, right? What arrived was what I can only describe as lukewarm aquarium juice with a few floating chunks from Lidl’s frozen seafood medley. It came with a slice of sourdough which, sadly, was the best part of the meal. If the fish had been any more anonymous, it would have entered the witness protection programme.

Who’s to Blame?

Now, I’m no Jamie Oliver but even I know that dinner should taste of something. And frankly, more often than not, I leave pubs thinking I could’ve cooked something better myself. My partner—who actually can cook—usually spends the drive home listing the ingredients they’d have added “if they’d had the nerve.”

Which begs the question: why is pub food so consistently beige and boring? Is the Great British palate really that terrified of seasoning? Are we so traumatised by the one time someone put coriander on a burger that we now demand all meals be no more daring than a digestive biscuit?

Or are the people behind the stoves not really chefs at all, but just enthusiastic reheaters who’ve mastered the dark arts of the microwave and air fryer? There’s nothing wrong with being a home cook. Most of us give it a go to varying levels, but we’re not employed to dish up something some poor sod is going to pay twenty quid for.

Playing It Safe (Far Too Safe)

Maybe it’s not the chefs. Maybe it’s the publicans, playing it safe, terrified that the first time a fennel seed appears on a plate someone will send the entire meal back, along with a strongly worded TripAdvisor review titled “Disgusting – my gammon was exotic.”

Either way, the result is the same: pubs are serving food that doesn’t justify the cost. And the cost isn’t minor. A meal for two, a bottle of bang average wine, and maybe a dessert you instantly regret ordering, and you’re staring down a bill close to £100. If I’m going to drop that kind of money, I’d at least like to feel like it wasn’t a mistake.

Set Expectations or Serve Better Food

Say what you like about Wetherspoons, Greene King, Greggs, or Nando’s—you know what you’re getting, and you pay accordingly. There’s no pretence, no mystery, it does what it says on the menu. But walk into many other pubs these days and it’s a culinary roll of the dice—and the house always wins. Badly. You leave full, sure, but mainly of regret. And stomach cramps.

So until things change, I’ll probably keep eating out less. Not because I don’t want to support local pubs, but because I’d quite like to be supported in return—with flavour, value, and maybe a hint of actual cooking.

Is that really too much to ask?