Wiltons
WHEN, IN 2009, Tatler celebrated its tercentenary, it assembled no fewer than ten British dukes around one table. Where was that table? Why, at Wiltons, of course: arguably the only establishment in the country in which such an august gathering could seem (almost) unremarkable.
As integral to the collective self-identity of its clientele as White’s and the House of Lords, Wiltons is as old school – by which I mean, public school – as they come. Michael Stokes, the enchantingly warm and personable manager, still recalls the occasion when a trio of distinguished friends arrived and he was obliged to greet each one, quite correctly, as ‘Sir John’. (On the subject of greetings, take note: no matter how far advanced the afternoon, it’s always ‘Good morning’ at Wiltons until you’ve had your lunch.)
Plush, cosy and enveloping as a four-poster bed, the ambience fostered by ankle-deep carpets, elegant artworks, shimmering silver and starched napery is redolent of an unostentatious but extremely luxurious country house. The cooking, which defines the notion of ‘Traditional English’, more than lives up to the décor. Celebrated for its oysters, fish and game in season, Wiltons positively encourages one to linger. It’s one of the very few restaurants of its calibre to eschew the anti-social policy of ‘return times’ on its tables. It’s a wonder its devoted patrons ever go home.
See also: Brown’s Hotel, The Guinea Grill, Rules
