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.
The Georgian is definitely a place for a fancy meal with visiting aunt Ida, no matter how relaxed and groovy Harrods had hoped to make it. Service is friendly, but formal: expect stuff on trolleys, theatrical tableside choppings, dishes sauced daintily by your servers and featuring names such as “1909 Harrods Diamond Jubilee consommé” and “1959 sole Bercy”.
Nothing, however, can stop The Georgian feeling like a department store dining room: the entrance is a semi-hidden tunnel from the children’s department, while the walk to the ladies’ loo is about half a mile from your table, and right through the sports section, which is convenient, because you may need walking poles to get back.
Franklin is hailed on the Harrods website as “the king of pies”, which would be an insult on any football terrace, but not here. Irrefutably, he has altered the perception of pie-craft in lofty gourmand circles over the past eight years, first with The Pie Room at Holborn Dining Room, more recently at the Parisian Public House and now here.
The Georgian doesn’t just serve pies, though – there’s rib-eye, veal in paprika sauce and fancy salads (though the smoked haddock scotch egg is really nothing to write home about) – yet it would be remiss to come and not try a pie, and the Atlantic lobster one was the highlight of my visit. It’s not strictly a pie; more an enormous, high-sided, glossy, golden vol-au-vent crammed with lobster flesh in a rich lemongrass, ginger and Thai-basil bisque. But the enormo vol-au-vent is a much-neglected culinary art form, and this one was a delight, particularly with sides of the finest whipped pomme puree and a side of charred hispi cabbage.
We also ate a very good, thick-crusted chicken and penny bun mushroom pie with ceps and tarragon, which came on a puddle of roast onion marmalade and which we drizzled delicately with a tiny silver tureen of jus (OK, I’ll drop my aspirations: it was gravy).
None of this is particularly cheap, but if you’re spending a gift token, or simply letting others pay, it’s a charming, rather yesteryear way to spend an evening. Franklin’s famous beef wellington may be pricey at £150 for two, but it’s a fillet of beef wrapped in bresaola, wild mushroom duxelles and, of course, pastry, and it’s served with roast potatoes, caraway carrots and a truffle-based sauce périgourdine.
The part of dinner that made me the giddiest, though, was dessert. If you order The Georgian trifle – an apple-based, rather boozy pudding – well, a great drama unfolds involving a dessert trolley, multiple small silver bowls of toppings, a legion of spoons, a smearing of cream and speeches. Yes, this trifle is prepared tableside, in my case by a man called Denis. It was a level of cosseting I hadn’t realised my life was missing. “Calvados?” Denis asked. “Apple crumble pieces? Or chocolate balls … or both?” he suggested. I shall never look upon pre-prepared trifle in the same way, not after experiencing the trifle butler. Bird’s trifle kit with sponge fingers and jelly crystals? Never heard of it.
Giddiness aside, The Georgian is all rather lovely. It’s neither cool nor hip, and it has a cruise ship feel that some will love and others will steer well clear of. But the legacy of Harrods’ fourth floor as a reassuringly posh restaurant that aims to please tourists is firmly intact. It’s wrapped in suet pasty and served with fragrant lamb consommé. If they’d served pies in the 80s, perhaps a Dent would have eaten there sooner.
The Georgian Fourth Floor, Harrods, 87–135 Brompton Road, London SW1, 020-7225 6800. Open dinner Mon-Sat, 7-10.30pm; afternoon tea Mon-Sun, 11.30am–4.30pm (6pm Sun). From about £75 a head à la carte, plus drinks and service.
