Maggie Jones’s
TO DINE AT CERTAIN restaurants is to become a kind of time traveller. At Rules, the clock froze at imperial high noon. At Zédel, one is swept into the euphoria of the années folles. And at Ognisko, one steps into the pages of a wartime novel by Graham Greene or Elizabeth Bowen. In the case of Maggie Jones’s, it’s forever 1964. London is set to swing. Snobbery and starched napery are out, egalitarianism and the bistro experience are in. Princess Margaret and her husband Lord Snowdon, formerly Antony Armstrong-Jones, were once regulars. Indeed, it was the patronage of those Kensington locals that gave Maggie Jones’s its name. Symbolic of the erosion of class deference, as well as the stratospheric celebrity of the royal couple themselves, it speaks volumes about the mood of the era. Can you imagine a brasserie called Lilibet’s? No? My point exactly. Dusky, candlelit and cosy on the warmest summer nights, Maggie Jones’s fosters a feeling of low-key seduction, from the inviting aroma of garlic as one enters to the soundtrack of soothing, after-hours jazz. Festooned with dried flowers and farming paraphernalia, the décor is rustically unreconstructed. Dogs, I’m delighted to report, are made welcome.
Food-wise, look for more of the same: soup or paté to start, followed by sausage and mash, chicken in tarragon sauce or roast rump of lamb. The signature fish pie can hold its own against any in town.
See also: The Guinea Grill, Noble Rot, Ognisko
