On the last Saturday evening before indoor dining resumed, torrential rain revealed the frailties of eating outdoors. I watched guests huddle under awnings, driving rain diluting their primitivo. Stormy weather wasn’t enough to keep people – sanity teetering on the precipice thanks to this grinding lockdown – away from restaurants, but after a blustery month of precarious alfresco dining, it’s comforting to be enfolded once again in the pleasure of dining rooms and to step closer to our blithe pre-pandemic existence. So before I tackle the opening night of my own restaurant, I need to immerse myself in a cocoon of sanity and civility. I book into the Wolseley.
I am greeted by the long-serving sentinel, Mr Fennell. He has the sort of ease and affable banter that can’t be taught, and never fails to tell me how nice it is to see me. I’m sure he says that to everyone – still, flattery retains its soft power. Tonight it’s the grand reopening – clusters of diners unfurl as far as the eye can see, wait staff look as if they’re having a ball, and the surrounding tablescape looks like a stage set for a glitzy musical.
Behind the grand facade, the Wolseley feels like its own universe – dense with wealth, cultural capital and anecdote. In the course of its 18 years, it’s become a London stalwart, a favourite of the late greats – artist Lucian Freud and food critic AA Gill. It’s discreet yet provides ample opportunity for double takes – notable Londoners and Hollywood A-listers relax gawker-free among the hoi polloi. There aren’t any icy reservationists, yet there’s a sense that you got lucky when you find your posterior perched on one of its plush leather banquettes, your face illuminated by the kind of vanity lighting that makes Instagram filters look lame.
I have felt at home among the dinner jackets and champagne flutes in a cocktail dress, a sari or jeans. Despite the transient nature of its location, the restaurant has a sense of community – this is in part down to members of staff like Mr Fennell, but also serious regulars: Europeans in exile, taut-faced Ladies Who Lunch, theatre luvvies, media elite and artists are all possessive of their favourite nooks. There is equity to the hospitality here – you are greeted with familiarity and never excluded, even if it’s your first time.
Choosing a restaurant is like choosing a story to be part of and, if you frequent it, you become a member of its supporting cast. Like any longstanding relationship, though, love is not a permanent state of enthusiasm. There have been nights where I have almost wept with contentment eating a golden consommé with dumplings of unfathomable fluffiness, thinking it the most profound meal of my life. Other times, the exact same dish was just a nice bowl of soup. But it was when I started to plan my own restaurant that I began to see this formidable institution with fresh eyes and respect.
Founders Chris Corbin and Jeremy King are architects of ambience and exerted every energy into creating a restaurant as close to perfection as you can get. The light fixtures, the height of the tables, the temperature, the acoustics – every piece of glassware and crockery has been pored over. There’s the impeccable culture of hospitality: people who remember your name, who are poised to spot an empty glass from across the street, who ask after your children or your dog as they bring you complimentary warm bread with lozenges of salted butter. It was here that I learned the most valuable lesson for any fledgling restaurateur: running a restaurant is ultimately about the business of doing pleasure. Good food and fancy interiors aside, it’s about how you make your guests feel.
After I got married in 2016, the Wolseley and its sister restaurant establishment, the Delauney, were the only restaurants that would welcome us with warm enthusiasm for our 11pm, post-work date nights. We often stayed canoodling, as newlyweds do, until the small hours and never once felt rushed out. It was here, one Saturday, as the clock struck midnight, that I read one of the first reviews of my restaurant, Jikoni, by AA Gill in the Sunday Times. I was deeply moved as the waiters toasted our success with a complimentary glass of champagne – it couldn’t have happened in a more fitting place.
People don’t come to the Wolseley for the food – although it is always more than serviceable. The menu maintains a backbone of classics, as well as seasonal specials. Right now, there are tender lobes of blushing salt marsh lamb that taste of the delicate coastal flora it might once have grazed on. The chicken with Madeira sauce which promises fragrant morels, however, only manages to deliver a sharp kick of salt. The barely touched plate disappears quickly from the table with an apology and, despite my lack of fuss, it disappears from the bill, too. There are seared scallops that arrive on the shell, swimming in a buttery potato mousseline and wafting of garlic; while soufflé Suisse is a fragile, gravity- defying miracle of Gruyère suspended in egg whites that vanishes quickly in decadent, cheesy blasts.
It’s the puddings and viennoiserie, though, that dip you over the knee for a pulse-quickening kiss à la française. You’d have to be dead inside not to fall hard for the pretty-in-pink peach melba éclair – a majestic puff of choux stuffed with peach crème diplomat and raspberries. Festooned with fondant icing and curls of ruby chocolat, it’s a joy-filled antidote to bleak times. The Lucian – served in a championship silver coupe is a mound of whipped cream resting perilously on three scoops of ice-cream – pistachio, hazelnut and almond praline – served with ribbons of hot butterscotch sauce that cling to my spoon like satin.
It’s raining again. It’s a relief to find shelter in one of London’s loveliest dining rooms. After a catastrophic year, in a city where the hierarchies of taste are usually determined by what’s new, nothing is more reassuring than a return to a classic.
Ravinder Bhogal is a chef and the owner of Jikoni, 19-21 Blandford Street, London W1U 3DH (jikonilondon.com)
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