Simpson’s Tavern
Now closed. The review stands, as a fond memorial.
IF IT SEEMS REMARKABLE that we’ve come this far without me once applying the word ‘Dickensian’ to any of the establishments in this book, allow me to make up the deficit now. Simpson’s Tavern is a jaw-dropping throwback to the days of Mr Pickwick and Ebenezer Scrooge.
Although London as a whole is an organic entity that grew piecemeal, without the rigorous logic of Manhattan or the theatre of Haussmann’s Paris, it’s only in the City that one can truly access an urban experience that predates town-planning by several centuries. Its knotted streets can confuse even seasoned veterans. Throw in a dense network of interconnected courts and one can wander for hours.
Situated at 38½ Cornhill, Simpson’s Tavern is a superlative chop house and institution. Founded in 1757, this male-dominated enclave is a lunch spot only – but what lunches. Feeding everybody from the bank chairman to the brickie in egalitarian, ‘elbows together’ style, the wooden booths in its austerely handsome grill retain the brass rails upon which, in earlier generations, toppers and bowlers could be safely stowed while eating. The gloriously unreconstructed menu leans heavily on steaks and meat pies, with Yorkshire pudding and devilled kidneys as standard. Even on fish-and-chip Friday, you’ll be offered a sausage with your order.
See also: The Cow, The Guinea Grill, The Quality Chop House
