When we had an Indian dinner at a very kind acquaintance’s home in London, it was a welcome diversion and one we were glad of. But the Ol’ Blighty, once ridiculed for its ridiculous cuisine that salvaged its reputation with a passable Anglo-Indian mish-mash, is now quite the gourmet and foodie haven with eye-popping restaurants, al-fresco bistros and fine-dining establishments. Every little neighbourhood has a range of wonderful diners that can range from the desi (but naturally) to Japanese sushi chains, French roasts and Mexican cornbreads. Then there’s food available off the shelf at the department stores — Lebanese, Chinese, Malaysian and who knows what else. Chicken tikka masala too, of course — but that’s British, innit? At least they’ve claimed it as their own and for a country with Yorkshire pudding and fry-ups as their claim to fame, they can have it: we’ve plenty else to call our own.
You can tell the sort of place you’re in — and the bill to expect — from the way the waiters address you. If they call you “Love” (though you suspect they’re spelling and pronouncing it “Luv”) or “Darling”, it’s a shoo-in for a quick and cheap diner, but if you’re “Sir” and “Madam” (never “Ma’am”), it’s likely to be fancy with frills attached. A notch higher and they’ll refer to you as “Signor” and “Signora”, which means your service charge will be the equivalent of a taxi ride to Heathrow — and if you don’t know what that is, you oughtn’t to be in that kind of place anyway. Still a notch snootier is the kind of club where, even as a member, you can’t invite guests — or at least more than one guest — as some embarrassed visitors discovered when they weren’t allowed in despite their connections and credentials. That’s the kind of place that may get bad press but everyone’s still queuing to sign up for a hefty fee, even when the risk of rejection runs high.
We were turned away from a few establishments too, but only because the hour was late by English standards. Ye ol’ English pub now exists only in imagination, replaced by fancier replicas relying on their pedigree, but we did have some interesting experiences. The Botanist at Sloane Square served us nature-inspired cocktails and appetisers, and though there appeared to be only one harried waiter, the service was both friendly and efficient. We also ate at other roadside pubs and diners too numerous to remember because we didn’t want to live off sandwiches at self-service cafeterias, though at one — The Good Life —in Mayfair, my wife swore she had the best breakfast of her life (I wasn’t invited). Nor have I been invited to remain in London for her talk at the posh Cinnamon Club, revenge perhaps because she wasn’t part of our group at China Tang, arguably London’s best Chinese restaurant at the venerable Dorchester.
We did stretch ourselves to Sainsbury’s takeouts, even though it was restricted to strawberries, and some emergency midnight heat-and-eat meals, but La Brasserie nearby surprised us with a rare pate and marmalade, and, on another evening, a delicate John Dory. On my last day when a friend invited us to the till recently Michelin-starred Zafferano in the heart of Belgravia, I couldn’t have asked for a better send-off from London. From the service to the wine and food, we were discretely overwhelmed. Whether Britain exits the European Union or not, London’s standing as the centre of the world’s food universe will hopefully remain intact.
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