Review at a glance: ★★★★☆
You’ll not overhear better conversation than in Wiltons, though in other restaurants often you get the choice. Discounting the booths, which in a war-bunkerish way keep the world out and all the secrets in, Wiltons is a place for people who project. Raging ex-wives, judges with oceanic voices, Americans showing off; that gang. Unsolicited conversation that joined our table included a disparaging appraisal of Cambridge University (“Are you seriously telling me it’s still ‘in’?”), talk of “mother shacking up with a man 32 years younger” (good for her), and later a politician’s daughter cheerfully recalling scandalous visits to Chequers (“the things we saw, you wouldn’t believe”). “I never meet anyone, Jeremy,” said one lachrymose singleton. “I’ll probably end up with a friend.” “Oh darling, no,” Jeremy replied. “I’d never let it get that bad.”
This, and all manner of unprintable gossip so eye-watering I wanted the waiter to condense the air and mix it into a martini. The sort of thing you want more of, louder and in detail; what I was after, I realise, was a hearing aid. Not a hard ask in Wiltons, has to be said. The only people who have this level of abandon are those who know there isn’t time left for consequences. There is a gleeful naughtiness to the very decrepit.
It’s not all oldies. Couldn’t be, otherwise the menus would have a bigger font. What really binds those who come is money. I suspect I’m the only customer in the history of the place to pay with a Tesco credit card. The waiter did a visible double-take and paled.
It has some history, though, Wiltons: founded in 1742, moseyed about a bit, finally landed on Jermyn Street in 1984. It is a restaurant of elegance and playfulness, Englishness of the old guard, jolly good form and no rum sorts. There is a backbone of formality, too. Art is a mix of rather too many women in hats and then a few crustaceans cheerfully splashing about, hugging turbots and the like. The logo is a top-hatted lobster toasting a glass of champagne. It is a restaurant where much of the menu is soft and nursery-ish (soufflés, soups, trifles, crumbles), but all of it presented with utmost formality: diners seat themselves at a keyboard of cutlery.
Staff are all in jacket and tie, as they want gentlemen diners to be (correctly, short sleeves are among the disparaged attire). They reflect the general feeling of Wiltons, of amused eyes above a stiff upper lip. “I’m sorry, sir,” said a waiter, having cornered my elbow between the chair and his carving trolley, “I’ve only just got my licence.” They attend gently but thoroughly, all-seeing. Guests know their first names; they stick to surnames in return. Their offer is reliability, discretion, comfort. The whole place does. In a place where food needn’t impress, it still does. It should, for the price. There is a seasonal menu at £47.95 for two courses, £57.95 for three, which offers excellent value, but going à la carte is a game for gamblers; the wine list particularly quickens the blood. Still, if you can pay for it, do. Now that Gavroche is gone, Wiltons claims the crown for London’s finest soufflé; here it is made with Stilton and baked twice, richer even than those eating it. I’ve had it three times this year: I dote on it; it might be my favourite dish in town. A lobster bisque is similarly good — perhaps a global gold standard for the dish. Others could learn. There is a restaurant in Utah that recently served me bisque with marshmallow — f***ing marshmallow — that I’m thinking of particularly.
I suspect I’m the only customer in the history of the place to pay with a Tesco credit card. The waiter did a visible double-take and paled
Fish pie came with a breadcrumbed soft-boiled egg, inside jostling with salmon, cod and halibut. Every forkful brought something to the surface; they do not skimp here. Lobster, grilled and served with its juice, was done slightly under, but the meat muscular. Dover sole here outdoes anything at Scott’s. There are dauphinoise with enough cream to make your heart hurt.
Wiltons is perhaps not a restaurant for those who save and save to afford it; its wonders are not as immediately obvious as those at, say, the Ritz, or even Rules. But it offers elegance from a disappeared world; the price of admission covers transportation. And perhaps the scripts they evidently give regulars to read off. Actually, no; what I was hearing, you couldn’t make it up.
Meal for two about £380. 55 Jermyn Street, SW1Y 6LX; wiltons.co.uk
