Review at a glance: ★★★★☆
Having weathered too many waiters’ lumbering sermons, I cling very closely to the idea that no one should dictate to anyone else how best to approach a restaurant. Do your thing: eat, drink, leave. Pay if you absolutely must. Whatever; you know the drill. I am, then, breaking a rule to petition anyone thinking about Sael — and think about it you should, it is a wonderful restaurant — to embrace loose-fitting fashion. Go baggy and ban the belt. Invest in an elastic waist. Sael is not a restaurant to let diners leave hungry; here is somewhere wanting its patrons slumped fain on the banquettes patting their newborn bellies. Generous doesn’t cut it. I saw skin-tight sorts arrive and shuddered in anticipatory sympathy.
Sael is Jason Atherton’s latest — well, sort of, given that by accident rather than design, he is in the midst of opening five places concurrently. Sael — Old English for season, “sail” is close enough — is a big, British affair. How British? The walls are covered in portraits of English icons (Kate Bush and Bowie, not Churchill and Cromwell) and the playlist is dominated by knights (Rod, Elton, Mick). There’s a black pudding starter. How British? Even wine is served by the pint.
Bloody clever that, actually. A pint may be the perfect amount for two; a little more than a large glass each, a little less pricey than succumbing to an entire bottle. Price seems to be a priority for Atherton, who says that, even for little old globe-trotting him, a night out in London is starting to pinch. Join the club. The wine list is divvied up by price, with chapters under £50, £100 and £200, before spiralling into silly money for the millionaires yet to flee town. There’s a prix fixe: £28 for two courses, £32 for three, and a heaving Sunday roast under £30. The service charge is just nine per cent. Nine! Is this just to show up avaricious American operators? I hope so. The nudge is towards fun without fretting over the cost. Still, Atherton’s an equal opportunist, so for the ex-Pollen Street crowd with bottomless Amexes, money can be spent. The meaning of life may yet be found in the last dregs of an expense account.
It is an enormous menu — in scope, not like a novelty cheque. Christ, does it carry some treasure. Slices of Marmite custard tart arrive as cheerful and colourful as bunting, with blow-torched tops and endless umami. A bar of black pudding, wedged between a pair of crisp potato pave, offered a glimpse at the all-day breakfast of dreams. Flat bread with lamb doner lavished on top? Big, heavy, comforting — blanket by the fire stuff. A battered oyster with Sarson’s “scraps” brought to mind childhood walks on sleeted beaches. Nostalgia has seasoned the pans here.
What else — what else?! Understand this list is near endless; the above are snacks, then come starters, skewers, mid-plates (what?), mains, sides, puddings. Oh, but so much is so good. Port-roasted figs make the table splayed almost suggestively open — Egon Schiele would have liked it here — while a scallop lay under shavings of its own roe, its delicate flavour set against smoked leeks tumbled with razor clams.
Hereford snail and ox cheek lasagne billed as “100-layer” might numerically disappoint, but with its honking great flavour — and maths hardly a strong suit — I didn’t give a monkey’s. True, tousled wigs of leaves covered too many dishes; I wondered, briefly, if we were being invited to decipher our own order. But who cares? We left rapturous. Upstairs, there is a beautiful bar where the glass has been cut to suggest a downpour outside. Outside? Pah, who needs it? Sael cocoons.
A battered oyster with Sarson’s “scraps” brought to mind childhood walks on sleeted beaches. Nostalgia has seasoned the pans here
But outside we had to go, perhaps deleteriously full but with plans to return. The kitchen serves till 11pm, the bar till 1am. Sael is somewhere to explore bit by bit — schnitzel with a glass one Wednesday lunch, Cote de Boeuf with a bottle on a Friday night. With mates or on a date, when working or not. For the big boy credit card or the tightened wallet. In other words, it is a restaurant for anyone, at any time, on any occasion. Just go gently: attempting the menu in one go is perhaps unwise. Well, that’s my take. I wouldn’t dream of telling you how to do it.
Meal for two about £150; 1 St James's Market, SW1Y 4QQ, saellondon.com
Amuse-bouche
3 Greek Street
Poor old Jack Milroy. Sixty years ago next month, he opened the Soho Wine Market. Brother Wallace joined five years later and the place was renamed in accordance with what everybody already called it: Milroy’s. The Dumfries-born brothers practically invented the idea of being a whisky specialist, and by 1993 had 600 single malts on their shelves, drawing an international crowd of collectors (their legendary hospitality may have helped — they had what you’d call a generous pour). Now, although a website remains for e-commerce purposes, the Milroy name is gone. Instead, after an extensive refurbishment, the ground-floor shop and basement bar, the Vault, are reopening as 3 Greek Street, as per its address. Hardly an inspired choice. Still, it’s good to have the place back, with cocktails and Scotch in abundance. Look out for live jazz on Mondays. 3greekstreet.com
