The Grenadier
TO FIND THE GRENADIER at all, you have to know where you’re going. Trace the stately curve of Wilton Crescent, then cut into Wilton Row at its north-eastern end. Hemmed in by multi-million-pound mansions, bijou mews houses confront each other across cobbles sluiced at intervals by the soap suds of chauffeurs. Round yet another bend and you wind up on the steps of the most secluded but characterful pub in SW1. The Grenadier has had ties to the army since the beginning of the 18th century. Originally a mess for the officers of the 1st Regiment of Foot Guards (aka the Grenadiers), it became a public house around 1818. From the full-size sentry box on the pavement outside to the framed cap and jacket in a glass case within, its military heritage is trumpeted at every turn. Gloomily atmospheric, the interior comes into its own on autumn and winter evenings that lend themselves to the robust bill of fare. The bar snacks – Scotch eggs, Welsh rarebit, pork pies – have a natural affinity with an ever-changing selection of cask ales. If you’re staying for supper, the justifiably celebrated Beef Wellington, which is likely to be on the menu of my last meal, should I ever be so unfortunate as to find myself on Death Row, is highly recommended.
Remember to ask why the ceiling is papered with banknotes. It’s a good story.
See also: The Holly Bush, The Princess Louise, The Star Tavern
