Oyster season ahoy | Review: Wiltons, London

I used to be scared of Wiltons on Jermyn Street. Not just intimidated. Proper scared.

Even when I got my shoes made across the street in Tricker’s, where they called me “Mr Derek”, I still eyed those limos – depositing an Earl, a Tory grandee, or possibly a secret agent from a Frederick Forsyth novel – with trepidation.

So as I crossed the threshold on 1^st September at 1pm for our lunchtime booking I was taken aback when the House Manager greeted me with an ebullient “Good Morning!”

“But it’s after noon,” I said.

“Yes, but you haven’t had lunch yet. It’s an old Wiltons thing.”

“What would happen if I walked in at 3pm?” I flashed back, skewering him with my wit.

“We wouldn’t let you in. We’d be shut.”

I could see that Michael and I were going to get on. I hate clipboard Nazis, and Michael Stokes, House Manager at Wiltons for 17 years, is as far removed from a Chloe or a Poppy as it’s possible to get.

My companion Steve turned up in a T-shirt, greeting me with apoplexy. “Shit! A TIE!” he exploded, staring at my neckwear

He showed me to my booth – normally the preserve of the titled gentry I would hazard. In fact one of the titans of the newspaper industry was sat in the booth behind me (despite earwigging for three solid hours, we didn’t discern a single iota of gossip). The essential ingredient at Wiltons, you’ll find, is discretion, which is why minor royals still drop by for a spot of luncheon. It’s not the capital’s actual oldest restaurant (that’s Rules) but it remains its oldest business (est 1742).

My companion Steve turned up in a T-shirt, greeting me with apoplexy. “Shit! A TIE!” he exploded, staring at my neckwear.

I suggested to Michael that he throw Steve out, without further ado.

“No,” Michael mollified me, “we relaxed the dress code some time ago. He’s wearing a jacket.” But both Michael and I eyed Steve in such a way to make him feel uncomfortable. At least he wasn’t wearing trainers. (I’d suggest a quick visit across to Tricker’s if you are – tell them Mr Derek sent you.)

“Put it this way,” Michael explained later. “If someone’s here doing a multi-million pound deal and they’re not wearing a tie, we’re hardly going to object.”

Wiltons has got real.

The booth was all polished dark wood and soft lighting, extremely comfortable and, like most booths in London, apparently designed for four people. I filled one side. Steve filled the other. Four would be cosy.

September 1^st, for those of you old enough to remember, is the day when oysters used to go on sale. Now, Rock Oysters can be bought all year round – and indeed Wiltons has plenty of them – but once upon a time Natives were the thing and, after all those summer months without an “R”, people like me used to (literally) queue for smooth, round, flavoursome Natives, forever my favourite.

“We don’t have any Colchesters yet,” announced Barbara, our waitress, who has been dealing with peers and earls for 22 years. “They arrive this afternoon. But have the Loch Ryans, they’re delicious.”

Apparently the Colchesters, coming that afternoon, were only going to be Number Twos anyway, not Number Ones. I like Number Twos. But actually I like Number Ones too. If you see what I mean.

Also, I think I might love Barbara a little bit, but I’m not sure. I’ll come back to you on this.

Steve, in his T-shirt, is one of television’s greatest cameramen, and declared the Loch Ryans the best he had ever tasted. Me too. They came in Wiltons’ own ice-chilled metallic frisbee, with all the bits: lemon, shallot vinegar, both Tabascos. But we didn’t need anything extra, they were so delicious. There was also a small bottle.

“Barbara,” I asked, “what’s this?”

“It’s chilli vinegar,” she said politely, staring at the chilli pods inside.

It was horrible and I suggested it be kept for people with no taste buds.

She took it away. Not, I suspect, for the first time.

Before The Game arrived (grouse), we had a long and detailed discussion with the Hungarian sommelier about wine from his country, specifically the reinvention of Tokaji, before assessing what reds, for less than £100, might accompany those wee birds that I have a Neanderthal predilection for ripping apart with my bare hands.

Every Christmas Day since I was seven years old, I’ve made this pink gloop for my family (it’s a complex recipe, involving precise measurements of mayo and ketchup)

But we were interrupted by the arrival of our appetiser. Failing miserably as food reviewers, Steve and I had decided to order the same thing. We could have had the caviar or the soup or any of the other shellfish dishes, spankingly fresh crab and langoustines or a variety of cured salmon, but we both, boringly, went for what we actually wanted which – this also being labor Day – was Lobster Cocktail. Which is where the reality check rears its head. Labor Day or no, a prawn cocktail is a prawn cocktail, with lettuce and pink Marie Rose sauce. Barbara brought over martini glasses loaded with chopped lobster tail and a whole meaty luscious claw, then delicately spooned the pink gloop around it, leaving a sauce boat for seconds. Every Christmas Day since I was seven years old, I’ve made this pink gloop for my family (it’s a complex recipe, involving precise measurements of mayo and ketchup) – and while I’m sure Wiltons use more exotic ingredients, you have to decide whether you want to pay £32 for all that Scottish lobster meat in sauce: your choice.

But let me just say this. If you want a seductive booth where there is no table turning, then you’re going to have to pay accordingly. This is St James’s, and it’s 2014.

At which point David brought our Burgundy, one of Roger Belland’s Premier Cru Graviéres from Santenay, for our approval. It’s 100% Pinot Noir, which is not my favourite – just a taste thing, you understand – but keep in mind this is from next door to Chassagne Montrachet, so what do I know? Certainly the bouquet was heady, and Steve, who was telling me by this time that he was television’s greatest cameraman, and a wine collector, explained that it would open up. Which it did, quite spectacularly.

The grouse came with game chips, bread sauce, and a piquant emulsion of brown innards which I happen to adore, like Barbara as it happens, who had asked me if I wanted the grouse “off the bone”.

“Next to peeling spuds,” I pointed out, “deboning a wee grouse must be the worst job in the kitchen.” Steve and I then tried to remember our worst jobs in kitchens – nightmares of endless plucking, podding and scraping. We had the grouse on the bone, starting with polite knives and forks, but quickly progressing to fingers and slurping. Bowls of tepid lemon water were discreetly slipped before us.

Creamy stilton and a sharp raspberry soufflé followed but, more importantly, we were by now engaging the staff in conversation, laughing at our own jokes (thanks to that Burgundy) and listening to their tales from years past.

It wasn’t the slightest bit intimidating at all. And Steve and I weren’t eavesdropping on the booth behind us, dammit, but hanging on Barbara’s every word. C

 

Wiltons, 55 Jermyn Street, London SW1Y 6LX
020-7629 9955; wiltons.co.uk