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Marrying modernity with tradition is harder than you might expect. Wiltons in Jermyn Street, just off Piccadilly, manages this feat marvellously.
I love the anticipation before going out to eat. Especially with friends you haven’t seen for quite some time and to a destination restaurant that feels like it’s been on your list forever. It’s never quite how you imagine it though, is it?
My guest and I chose 18:30 for our reservation, which now feels early for dinner in London. Yet Wiltons and its team are already in full flow, with tables filling as fast as could possibly be imagined.
Stepping inside it feels narrower than expected, but the further you walk away from the shuttered front door, the more there is a feeling that the space sprawls across multiple properties. All from what feels like the classic dark unassuming frontage of a single Jermyn Street Georgian townhouse.
I offer to pack away my cumbersome e-scooter and have been given the nod to pick a cupboard for it of my choosing. Evidently nothing is going to be too much trouble. ‘Old school’ Wiltons? Nothing of the sort. There are some things that haven’t changed though and the place is the better for it. From the front of house brigade, many of whom are in uniforms designed decades ago, through plush velvet green seats that envelop you in a warm grandfatherly hug, to a vintage drinks trolley with its never-ending crystal cut decanters (all with specific beverage partners).
Some of the first guests have just walked in from their pied-à-terres, located only metres away. Suited and booted they are part of what feels like an ever-decreasing circle of old school Londoners who have a place of their own in St James’s, those precious few who still live in town permanently.
Almost as soon as my fellow food critic friend and I are seated warm, pillowy-soft, rye-heavy rolls are brought to us. The crusts snap delectably when broken and they are complemented by the deep yellow salted whey butter sitting alongside. A glass of complimentary champagne is proffered and gratefully accepted. I already know we will eat and drink very, very well.
Over comes our maître d', whose magical touch we had already witnessed. Again, he proves that nothing is too much trouble – three regulars had walked over to their usual spot only to be alarmed as to how close another table was to theirs (a large one, right next to ours). His solution? Simply pick it up and walk off with it. Problem solved! No-one can make you feel more comfortable in a dining room like a well-seasoned maître d'.
Warm, pillowy-soft, rye-heavy rolls are brought to us. The crusts snap delectably when broken and they are complimented by the deep yellow salted whey butter sitting alongside
He presents us with rich, dark green bound menus (‘British with some heavy French influences’… ‘heavy on the fish and game of these islands’… perfectly summarised by my dining companion) that again nod to Wiltons' sumptuous past. But as I open the pages a leaner offering appears. I welcome a more compact menu in such a setting. You instinctively know that things are fresher that way. Furthermore, everything would appear to be printed daily at Wiltons so as to be faithful to seasonality and availability.
Oysters Rockefeller and Lobster Bisque are ordered. Both of these feel appropriate, considering the eponymous George Wilton started selling shellfish in the Haymarket way back in 1742. The playful lobster character that adorns their crockery and other regalia reflects the origin story. Now for wine. The sommelier instantly suggests a plan: a glass of Pouilly-Fumé (Sauvignon Blanc from the Loire) to offset the voluptuousness of the oysters and a glass of ripe, tropical fruit-driven Charnay-lès-Mâcon (Chardonnay from its rightful home of Burgundy) for the crustacean. They work brilliantly.
I love a bit of theatre, so seeing my bisque lovingly poured over perfectly cooked lobster flesh and chervil already has me salivating. But there is more to it than that. As soon as the liquid starts flowing into my bowl my nose takes over as the primary sense.
And I am not to be disappointed – the impact on my palate matches up to the promise offered to my eyes. Rich and complex from the shellfish base, light and sweet from the meat and all freshened by the wonderful acidity from a healthy dose of citrus juice.
Waiting for the next course, I grab the chance to walk quietly across to visit the necessary room. I stumble across a group of young Koreans, who have long since known of the place and are grateful to finally get to eat in an iconic London establishment. Like me they have somehow anticipated something else, yet remark how it’s already beyond anything they could have imagined: ‘Only London can be like this anywhere in the world.’
I know what they mean.
Downstairs there is another little treat in store. The facilities are brightened up by framed prints of cartoons from The Spectator. It brings a wide smile to see former editor George Gale’s satirical fun-poking, with Wiltons themselves directly in the firing line. Gale clearly ate in here himself a great deal back in the day.
I love a bit of theatre, so seeing my bisque lovingly poured over perfectly cooked lobster flesh and chervil already has me salivating
Returning to my seat the sommelier is topping up my sparkling water. As with wine, if waiting staff are going to take control of drinks, then I like to see it done for the duration of the whole meal (he does). I had also, earlier, seen him taking the liberty of pulling the cork on our Domaine Forey, a Morey-Saint-Denis and now I am invited to taste it.
Having been open for some time in readiness for this course it is already ‘singing’. This is the kind of wine expert you want in and around your meal.
Bravo.
I have chosen a bottle of old-world Pinot Noir for the main event – grouse. Nothing says autumn is here like a bottle of red Burgundy and a game bird. Mine is cooked perfectly rare. There isn’t a flavour like it when it’s done right. I’ve always likened the flavour of grouse to fine wine, where the finish will go on for thirty seconds or more if procured right and cooked well enough.
Game chips are served alongside brioche breadcrumbs, bramble fruit, bread sauce, a disc of purple liver pâté and grouse jus. Watercress and smoked bacon adorn the bird to a finish, which has been left on the bone. After finding an obligatory piece of shot I remark to our waiter how beautifully they all feed off one another, only to be asked ‘do you want to try our celeriac purée with it? I would recommend you do.’ It feels rude not to and there is no surprise when it works. I adore confident service like that.
Our two mains of grouse are priced at £55 each. Is that cheap? Certainly not. Is it good value when all things are considered? I would passionately argue for it being as good value as pretty much anything can be; it brings deep contentment at the time and establishes memories that will barely fade. We try to slow down time and savour what we have left on our plates and in our glasses. My dining companion picks up his grouse wings and gives them the attention they rightly deserve. Those finger bowls are there for a reason.
Game chips are served alongside brioche breadcrumbs, bramble fruit, bread sauce, a disc of purple liver pâté and grouse jus
As time marches on the cheese trolley is rolled out and we embrace the sight. King of the trolley today is Cropwell Bishop. This is Stilton at the top of its game. Tunworth, an English Camembert if you will, is also in fine form and, perhaps the finest of Cheddars, Montgomery, make up a powerful trio. Divine homemade oat biscuits, grapes, homemade port jelly and chutney completes the set.
Blackberry soufflé, apple compote and apple sorbet is my final choice of the evening. I love seeing a Nyetimber Cuvee Chérie Demi-Sec (a nose of ‘pear drops’ will stay with me as much as anything else from this evening) suggested as a dessert pairing. How lovely to see semi-sweet English sparklers increasingly interwoven into British menus with confidence.
We nibble on chocolate caramel petit fours and remark how three hours have gone by in a flash. Our new friends on the table next door are leaving before us. The older of the three smilingly remarks that ‘there isn’t an ambience like it anywhere in the capital.’
As soon as they have exited, replete, on to Jermyn Street, the offending table from earlier makes its return. Completely refreshed and ready to go as if nothing had happened.
Might there be a regret I have from a wonderful evening? Yes. I regret not going for the sticky toffee pudding that had been recommended. Not because the soufflé didn’t quite hit the rest of the meal’s heights, but because I should have trusted the team, just as I had otherwise done all evening. My mistake. But now I have a reason to return sooner, rather than later.
Michael Stokes is the House Manager, with decades of service himself alone and is a veritable institution. It’s when you talk to the Michaels of this world, and you’re a regular, that you can see how going out to Wiltons must feel like you’ve come home in a funny kind of way.
And that’s the bit that I never imagined, not for one second. Sometimes it’s nice to get things wrong.
1 Comment
Reading this made me realise that true elegance is in short supply. I shall be making a reservation shortly.