The Wellington has been drawing crowds to Margate of late, due to a recent takeover by chef Billy Stock and front-of-house queen Ellie Topham. Stock is formerly of nearby Sète, which I loved very much, and also cooked at London’s The Marksman and St John, which is a pedigree that says: “I like feeding people proper food, not fancy, itsy-bitsy suggestions of food.” So with that, I set off to the south-east Riviera on a day when the weather ranged from hailstones to simply freezing gales.
Much is said about Margate being freshly desirable, hip and charming, but on a freezing day at the tail end of winter, this seaside town certainly tests the prescription of one’s rose-tinted spectacles. None of the down-from-London brigade cries, “Let’s move to Margate!” as icy hail plink-plonks off their nose while they cower in the door of the Turner Contemporary. On days like this, you need a centuries-old pub like the Wellington just off the promenade in the Old Town, to dry off with a stiff negroni and a bowl of French onion soup with beef short ribs. Or maybe a slab of country-style terrine with cornichons and, if you’re driving, one of their very good non-alcoholic shrubs: when we visited, there was a lovely, sharp but not-too-tart rhubarb one on offer.
