Throughout the UK, a large number of thoroughly respectable persons have been behaving like imprisoned convicts. While they are not exactly keeping a tally on a drawing-room wall, as if it were a gaol cell, they are counting the days until social liberation, and indeed hoping that there will be a remission of sentence.
This is especially true of gourmets, who have been suffering acutely from restaurant deprivation. At the risk of adding to their pain, here is an evocation of three favourites. They all have one thing in common. They like to treat their customers as if they were members of a club. However long it has been since you crossed the threshold, the staff appear to have a remarkable memory. There is no need for them to excite further enthusiasm: you will be feeling that already. But the charm of being treated as if you had arrived at a home from home is an additional savour to enhance culinary expectation.
The first of them is Le Gavroche. Founded by the Roux brothers in 1967, it was instantly acknowledged to be the finest French restaurant in the country. Over the years, there have been challengers. Serious chefs appeared on the scene. Several of them became fashionable and despite the temptations of television cheffery, some have continued to produce outstanding their art. Michel junior, who is now in charge, has carried on that tradition, in perhaps the most seamless transmission of familial mastery since the Bellinis in Quattrocento Venice. The Roux clan knew and know how to produce the sort of repast that a member of the Parisian haute-bourgeoisie who had spent decades cultivating his palate would expect, on a very special occasion. In their Upper Brook Street establishment, with its surprisingly modest exterior, he would find a meal which justified the trip from Paris.
I once heard an American ask his waiter to recommend a special of the day. The reply was simple: ‘Monsieur, everything is special. Tell me what you would most feel like eating, and I will guide you.’ That remains true, with perhaps one exception. Le Gavroche’s souffle suissesse was one of the Queen Mother’s favourite dishes, and it is easy to taste why. So: order your meal, and then reply on appetite and taste-buds to create extra room for the souffle.
Over the years, like the more transient celebrity chefs, French ambassadors have some and gone. Some made good friends and left happy memories. Others were less successful, especially in recent years, when relations have been soured by Brexit. One or two gave the impression that they have still not forgiven the British for their part in D-Day. But this did not matter. In Mayfair, there has been a second French Embassy, in Le Gavroche, always promoting the diplomacy of the dining plate. Long may it continue.
Those were the days when oysters were at least as cheap as chips. From such humble origins, Wiltons grew and flourished. By the 1960s, it was under the formidable stewardship of the great Jimmy Marks, always known as Marks. Whether you want smoked salmon, oysters, gulls’ eggs: turbot, lobster, Dover sole, wild salmon or sea trout: game in various forms - all will be as good as it gets. I am sure that the same is true of beef and lamb, though I have always concentrated on fish or game. There is an obvious difference between Wiltons and the Gavroche. Although both of them make their dishes sing, Gavroche exemplifies great rather more these days than they did in the 1740s. But until something better is invented, they are both striving for perfection. They regularly achieve it.
The British Empire in India had a lasting influence on both countries. The UK is still benefiting from an important one-way traffic: Indian cookery. I doubt if there is any town
of any size in Britain which does not have at least one Indian restaurant. These vary in quality. Some aspire to be nothing more than outlets for the cheap and cheerful, providing plates of chicken vindaloo to help soak up the many pints of lager pouring down football supporters’ throats. But this is not real Indian food. For that, it is necessary to go to Indian private homes or to serious restaurants. London is well-endowed with that benign Imperial legacy, including Veeraswamy at the bottom of Regent Street.
Established in 1926, it claims to be the oldest Indian restaurant in Britain and this is probably true. Everything is excellent. This is a thoughtful kitchen. Its waiters are also delighted to assist customers who do not know much about Indian cuisine and are keen to learn about different ingredients and subtle spicing.
From all this, there is only one conclusion: the full opening of restaurants cannot come fast enough.
