Serving afternoon tea and a fancy, pie-centred menu of an evening, The Georgian inhabits a fancily refurbished space on the fourth floor of Harrods in Knightsbridge. Think Edwardian glam, twinkling chandeliers, and a pianist tinkling Celine Dion’s My Heart Will Go On as you nibble on smoked rabbit paté en croute with marsala jelly.
Several friends have said that this space, which has been a restaurant since 1911, holds the fondest of family memories for them. My family, on their numerous pilgrimages to gawp at Harrods during the 1980s, however, were never as bold as ever to dine there. We’d sneak in, gasp at the posh toy department, then buy a branded, olive-green tote bag for carrying spuds home from the Carlisle Co-op. Even now, in 2024, I instinctively keep a stiff back and my elbows off the table while perusing chef Calum Franklin’s menu of ornate pies and sipping on an oolong and chrysanthemum highball.
