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This generically named wine bar is a laidback and modest little spot on the chaotic thoroughfare that is Streatham Hill. It’s not at all ostentatious. There’s clattery brasserie furniture, lots of wood, painted signs on the walls and an out-of-place mural of a VW camper on the back wall.
Even on a Wednesday, it was all very buzzy with a scattering of drinkers gabbing away and generally looking pleased as punch. Staff, too, were chirpy and helpful, as well as informed: a back-and-forth over the dryness levels of their Loire whites meant I was recommended to stay with the house bottles and away from the pricier glasses (extracted from the bottle with a snazzy Coravin device) – which is refreshing. On to the reds, a glass of malbec was oddly sweet but quaffable while a Thibault Liger-Belair beaujolais was nicely chilled and tastefully sharp.
The food was okay: a plate of dried mutton was akin to a funky bresaola; sourdough was serviceable but a tad dry; and a guinea fowl rilette in a tiny kilner jar (what else?) was an unctuous few mouthfuls. Slices of Comté and Livarot cheese were well kept, respectively nutty and humming.
There’s nothing groundbreaking about Streatham Wine House and, realistically, you wouldn’t cross town to drink here, but as charming neighbourhood hangouts go, it’s textbook stuff.