Telephone: 020-7499 6996
Address: 160 Piccadilly, London W1
Rating: 17/20
Valparaiso, said Tucker, looking around the Wolseley. That's where he had seen it before - the pillars, arches, vaulted ceiling, wrought-iron work, the rococo excesses of art deco held in check by the monolithic order and restraint of neoclassicism. It seemed unlikely, but he assured me that the architects who designed the building that houses the Wolseley had recycled the design for discerning Chileans. Ah, the joys of a well-stocked mind.
The Wolseley, so named because it was once a showroom for that car, opened last year to a ferocious fluttering in the critical dovecote because it heralded a return of those nonpareils among London restaurateurs, Jeremy King and Chris Corbin. Some came to rave, others to sneer. I stayed away, partly because I thought it only fair to let it settle in and settle down, and partly because I couldn't get in. It still is fairly difficult to book a table, such has been the popularity of the place, in spite of the intentions of King and Corbin to keep 20% of the tables free for passing trade. So, giving up hope of ever getting in under an assumed name, I decided that the only way I could slide my knees under a table was by turning up almost as soon as the doors opened and refusing to leave until I had had my fill. In the event, this took 12 and a half hours - rather longer than even I am wont to stay at the table.
There is nothing quite like the Wolseley in London at the moment. It has something of a 19th-century cafe in Vienna about it, and something of a Parisian brasserie. It is less a conventional restaurant than a meeting place with food and drink, or a hotel without rooms. In the course of my long day's journey through breakfast, elevenses, lunch, tea and dinner (never let it be said that I lack a sense of duty), I kept on bumping into old friends and making new ones. But, if easy sociability is to be maintained, the smoothness of service is critical. One of the marvels of the big French brasseries is the crisp professionalism of the staff, and the speed with which orders are taken and food dispatched. The same is true of those antique mittel-European cafes. Such places have a tradition stretching back to, if not quite the dawn of time, then just after, and their staff are steeped in it.
Sadly, we do not have such praxis on which to draw, but Corbin and King made their names running very tight ships, the Caprice and the Ivy. They are well known to be sticklers for smooth service, and the service was pretty damned slick. This is a huge room to manage - the Wolseley handles about 600 customers a day, which is a lot of running about.
As well as stepping back in time in terms of style and design, the Wolseley has stepped back in time in terms of food, too. The various menus are a recherche des plats perdus, from eggs Benedict to date and walnut twist; from croque monsieur to coupe liégeois; from chicken soup and dumplings to chocolate eclairs, millefeuilles and finger sandwiches; from cassoulet to coq au vin; from steak tartare to steak and frites; from croustade of quails' eggs and hollandaise sauce to Wiener schnitzel Holstein and roast skate wing with capers and beurre noisette. Oh, fabulous, fabulous, fabulous.
Of course, I am a sucker for such jollities, but a jollity should be a delight, and for a jollity to be a delight it must be very, very good. On the whole, the dishes coming out of the kitchen were a delight. The black pudding at breakfast was outstanding and the sausage very good. The hot chocolate at elevenses was the best I have ever had. You would be hard pressed to find a finer frisée aux lardons in Lyons, and Tucker said the Wiener schnitzel was textbook stuff. The coupe liégeois (vanilla ice cream, whipped cream and hot chocolate sauce) was to die for - literally as well as figuratively. There was real tea in the teapot, a timer to ensure it brewed for long enough and sticky cakes to put a further gloss on death. At dinner, the steak tartare, spit-roasted suckling pig and skate were exemplary.
On the downside, the bacon at breakfast had been carelessly fried, or carelessly not fried enough, and the fried bread was both greasy and impenetrable. There was a touch too much tomato in an otherwise hefty, hearty, generous cassoulet, and the lemon tart did not have enough citric kick to offset the thick custard.
But that is not a lot to complain about, given the scheme of things and the scale of consumption. Nor would I whinge at the price: £236.35 all-in, for breakfast, elevenses, lunch for two, tea for two, dinner for two and a couple of bottles of wine. In fact, looked at that way, it seems more than reasonable - and, with the incomparable diversion of different tides of people washing in and out, it must be just about the best show in town.
· Open Breakfast, 7-11.30am; cafe, 11.30am-12 midnight. Lunch, 12 noon-2.30pm; afternoon tea, 3pm-5.30pm; dinner, 5.30pm-12 midnight. Menus English breakfast, £9.75; afternoon tea, £15. Wheelchair access & WC.
