It’s 12.05 on a weekday afternoon and unless you’re a toddler, it’s a tad early for lunch. Today, however, I’ve been hypnotised by pinstripes. Shoulder pads and champagne. The power lunch. The dream.
For here, in this small section of glossy, corporate London, such a thing still exists, frozen in time along with the word ‘madam’ — which is how I’m greeted in a well-rehearsed purr as I step into Sweetings, the 134-year-old fish restaurant that has seen more consultants, politicians and banking executives than Rupert Murdoch’s legal team.
You thought St John was charming? How quaint. Here the higgledy magnolia rooms would put Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen into cardiac arrest. Scattered with chalk boards, black-and white photographs, maps and caricatures, the two front rooms are fitted with mysterious, double-sided wooden bars built for long, intimate, wine-fuelled lunches, polished brogues and closing Critical Business Deals. Sweetings, in essence, is built for conversation.
So what am I doing here, shortly after breakfast, seeking a single seat among a swathe of suits? The answer is curiosity, obviously. Here in The City is a place that has stood the test of time — time and time again. Unlike many London restaurants, which hop on the carousel only to be replaced when the tides change, Sweetings has survived five owners, seven monarchs, two world wars, several financial crises and, crucially, the Pret invasion. Unless generations of Londoners are suffering from Stockholm syndrome, Sweetings must be pretty special.
Like all the best London haunts, this joint is elusive. Open for a mere three and a half hours from Monday to Friday, booking is out of the question. The early bird catches the prawn. Thankfully, I’m in luck and nab a seat on one side of the double-sided bench, facing the rickety, brown painted windows.
It’s the first day of autumn’s chill and, after perusing the clunky website, I’ve got a warming bowl of bisque on my mind. Sadly, the feeling isn’t mutual. Soup season is yet to start and instead traditional starters of potted shrimp, fried white bait and smoked eel sit atop mains of Dover sole, monkfish with lentil curry and tiger prawns with bacon.
In the spirit of my pinstripe-clad pals, time is money. Within moments I’ve panic-ordered a glass of the house white (Viognier) from a direct, friendly waitress, which arrives wincingly cold and crisp with two hastily buttered triangles of malty, indulgently squishy brown bread from a little-known independent I believe they call Hovis.
Soon, I become anonymous as the room floods with men who glug from well-worn silver tankards as old as the institution itself, while the team dances around stools in white shirts and black waistcoats taking orders with the practised precision and grace of lifelong hospitality experts. Which is further proven when I try to order the prawn cocktail. Frowning, the waitress directs me to the trout gravadlax instead, with an assured, ‘if you don’t like it, we can swap it for you’.
And she’s right, of course. Against the fuzzy snippets of businessmen discussing internal politics at Fox News, Rishi’s policies and the incessant click of a distinguished waiter’s green plastic pen, the vivid cured trout piled high on brown bread with dollops of bright, energising mustard and dill sauce is comfort food at its best. Meanwhile, big, steaming spoonfuls of the hearty fish pie with the golden ratio of 50 per cent silken mash, 50 per cent delicately cooked smoked salmon, cod and haddock, acts as a Jason Momoa-sized hug, whisking any bisque blues away.
Full to the brim, the timeless allure of Sweetings becomes clear. Yes it’s cleverly designed and entirely delicious, but the crux of this restaurant’s success lies in the fact that nobody wants to make a big decision over a Pret sandwich. And as a solo diner? I’ve decided I’ll be back.
