Forget The Ritz, The Ivy, and Rules — those grand institutions already immortalised by countless critics. Instead, join me on this renegade tour of London's most stubborn dining establishments — the kind of places where generations of taste and tradition cut deeper than any passing fad.
Step into Maggie Jones's and you'll be teleported directly into a 1970s dinner party — minus the unfortunate polyester and plus some charming intimacy. This restaurant is less a dining establishment and more a labyrinthine love nest, with tables tucked into corners so snug that discretion seems built into the very woodwork.
Their roast duck with orange sauce (£26) is a dish that stubbornly refuses to acknowledge that culinary trends have moved on, and all the better for it. Prawn cocktail? Check — and what a prawn cocktail it is, served in a classic glass with that unmistakable rose-pink marie rose sauce (£8.75) that looks like it stepped straight out of a 1972 cookbook. Every time I’m here, I can almost hear the hushed whispers and see the furtive glances between tables, where every couple looks like they're either mid-affair or auditioning for a Graham Greene novel.
If nostalgia had a flavor, it would taste exactly like Oslo Court — with a side of their signature veal Holstein. Imagine the most Instagram-unfriendly, gloriously unreconstructed dining room in London: a veritable tsunami of pastel pink that would make Miami Vice look understated. The sound-absorbing fabrics are so comprehensive that one could presumably conduct a covert international summit while enjoying duck à l'orange (£29) without a whisper escaping these plush walls.
More than a mere restaurant, this is a culinary museum, serving cuisine that treats modern food trends like distant, irrelevant gossip. Bon appétit, everyone — and mind the napkins, they might just muffle an entire symphony.
What began as a humble workers' refectory in 1869 has transformed into a temple of gastronomy that would make those original diners drop their jaws and wonder: "Is this really what we became?" Where once workers hunched over communal tables scarfing basic fare, now discerning gourmands savor meticulously prepared meats — like the signature pork chop, sourced from heritage breed pigs and priced at around £28 — almost charitable given the depth of flavor. Their confit potato — a crisp, impossibly layered marvel that looks like a golden architectural wonder — has become so legendary it's practically a culinary landmark in its own right, priced at a modest £6.
Where Karl Marx once plotted revolution, Jeremy Lee now leads a different kind of culinary rebellion. Dark wood paneling and art deco touches create an atmosphere of sophisticated intimacy. Vintage prints of local characters adorn the walls like gossipy witnesses, their frames alive with untold stories. Conversations crackle with energy, and windows overlooking Dean Street frame a constantly shifting tableau of Soho life.
Lee has a remarkable talent for making even the simplest ingredients sing — his beetroot and goat's cheese tart (£14) is a case in point, a vibrant canvas of earthy sweetness that could convert even the most ardent vegetable skeptic. The £38 set lunch is a steal — a reminder that excellence doesn't always come with an eye-watering price tag.
Descending the grand staircase into Brasserie Zedel is like stepping into a cinematic dream of 1930s Paris — if that dream were happening slap-bang in the middle of London. The sheer scale is breathtaking: marble columns, elaborate plasterwork, a dining room that could swallow most restaurants whole.
The prix fixe menu at £14.50 for three courses is nothing short of miraculous in central London. I'm particularly partial to steak frites at £22.50 — a dish so authentically French it almost requires a passport. Their onion soup gratinée arrives bubbling with Gruyère, a molten wonder that could warm the coldest London evening. The clientele is a delightful mix — tourists, local bon vivants, and those who appreciate that true glamour never goes out of style.
Richard Corrigan has transformed this historic spot into a seafood lover's paradise. The oyster bar downstairs is my personal heaven — native Mersea oysters at £4 each that taste like they've been plucked from the sea moments ago. His fish pie (£26) is the stuff of legend — a creamy, luxurious concoction that makes you wonder why anyone would ever eat anything else.
The atmosphere is pleasantly relaxed for such a distinguished establishment. Chefs shuck oysters with the precision of surgeons, and the sommelier moves between tables like a culinary diplomat. Their seafood platter for two at £95 is an unapologetic celebration of marine bounty — a dish that doesn't just feed you, but tells you a story of British coastal excellence.
If restaurants could be knighted, Wilton's would have been first in line. This is not dining — this is an institution. Its surroundings whisper exclusivity: wood-panelled walls, crisp white linens, and a palpable air of heritage. Their melt-in-your-mouth oysters Rockefeller or Dover sole (market price, usually around £45) are prepared with such reverence you half expect them to be served on a velvet cushion. The clientele looks like they've stepped out of a Tatler photoshoot — old money perfected to an art form. It's the kind of place where the waiters know your name before you sit down, where the wine list is thicker than most novels, and where discretion is the highest form of conversation.
