Rules
RULES HAS SATISFIED the nation’s heartiest appetites since 1798. Continuity is the keynote. Sir John Betjeman, Poet Laureate, preservationist and all-round good egg, was so devoted to the place that he lent his name to one of its private dining rooms. ‘Unique and irreplaceable’ was his verdict. Half a century on, I can’t put it any more succinctly. As opulent and over-stuffed as a Victorian parlour, the panelled and plush-lined interior bristles with antlers, taxidermy, oil paintings, ‘Spy’ cartoons and all manner of royal ephemera. Notwithstanding a heroic mural of Margaret Thatcher bearing the standard of St George, there’s little here to suggest that the calendar flipped much further than 1914, or even 1894. One shudders to think of the dusting.
The maximalist décor is but a manifestation of the cuisine. Oysters, smoked salmon, steak and kidney pudding and roast rib of beef: the menu might have been devised expressly to satisfy the cravings of a homesick empire-builder sweating out his days in a tropical clime. Indeed, it strikes me that Rules is the ultimate ‘cold weather’ restaurant, best visited between the months of September and January as an escape from the worst the British weather can throw at one. It’s no coincidence that it’s particularly famous for its game in season: pheasant, partridge, grouse and even, upon very special occasions, woodcock and ptarmigan.
See also: The Guinea Grill, J Sheekey, Wiltons
