Taking a Lunch-Long Holiday at Wilton’s
I consider myself a connoisseur of quiet havens. The hidey holes, the secret gardens, the tucked-away courtyards of London… I know them all. The world is a noisy place, and when I tire of maddening crowds, I retreat.
No, I don’t bury myself online. It’s worse there, where the landscape is crowded by loudmouths and the décor was designed for Instagram. Instead, I turn my steps to St James’s. I know of a spot that retains its own, very precise culture. It never gives to outside pressure, and it doesn’t chase progress for the sake of cheap likes.
The terrain is unique; both seaside aromas and whiffs of warm fulsome game can be caught in the air. The view is superb; with a miscellany of museum-worthy art on the walls. And besides, I find the locals charming. So, whenever I’m ready for a lunch-long holiday, I go to Wilton’s.
Little bright lamps on starched white tablecloths are Wilton’s constellation, the happy clink of silverware its national anthem.
I toddle out of Piccadilly station, turning off near Waterstones onto Jermyn Street. I’ve reached the designated stop when I see Harry the lobster, toting a glass of champagne in one claw, a cigarette holder in the other. Jauntily angled on his head is a top hat. This dapper North star is the sign that alerts you: sanctuary is imminent.
Once you cross the border that separates the hurly burly of the outside and the tranquil plushiness of Wilton’s, you’ll be greeted by the house manager, Michael Stokes, there to deftly relieve you of your coat with a gracious murmuration. You have arrived. Take it in.
Allow yourself to sink into a booth of deep green velvet set against ochre walls and dark wood. Little bright lamps on starched white tablecloths are Wilton’s constellation, the happy clink of silverware its national anthem. It’s ok if a relieved ‘mmmmm’, escapes you, should your neighbours overhear it, they will heartily understand.
A sort of semi-permanent twilight reigns inside – I love this about Wilton’s. You can never be quite sure what time it is, and if you’re anything like me, you don’t want to know. Some days I am even brave enough to put my phone on airplane mode, to really lean into the atmosphere, abruptly freed from the obsessive habit of refreshing my email. We may have wi-fi in the sky these days, but at Wilton’s, oh at Wilton’s, you can have a break.
At Wilton’s, oh at Wilton’s, you can have a break.
There is an Oyster bar of course, where they are shucked to order. Platters of succulent bivalves, perched on their peaks of ice, will make your mouth water as they sail past you to the tables of clever punters who called for them.
These pearly shellfish are the cornerstone of Wilton’s origin story: George William Wilton opened his mongers near Haymarket in 1742. The business passed down through the family till it settled in a fixed premises and became Wiltons Shellfish Mongers and Oyster Rooms in 1805, and by 1868 it received a Royal Warrant from Queen Victoria as her purveyor of oysters.
By WWII, it had passed out of the original family and the proprietress of the day, Mrs Bessie Leal, stressed by bombings in Piccadilly, exclaimed how she’d love to get rid of the place. Mr Olaf Hambro, banking scion and confirmed regular, was sat at the oyster bar, sinking his half dozen (or so legend has it). He said he’d take the restaurant; she could just pop it on his bill.
In the subsequent years, Wilton’s was so accustomed to hosting big wigs and worthies that they even dressed the waitresses as nannies (this supposedly brought on a nostalgia for childhood nurseries and made them feel more at home). And whilst any vaguely Freudian mannerisms have been weeded out (such as encouraging clients to finish up their veg), what we still have is an extremely knowledgeable staff who can make a mean recommendation based on your preferences.
Back to the food: dinner is wonderful, but lunch is best. Most importantly, don’t listen to the critics who brand the place stuffy, pompous, or pricey. These words are slurs unworthy of Wilton’s. For under £50 you can have two generous courses from the seasonal menu, including a brimming portion chiselled artfully from their carving trolley.
Monday to Saturday, Wilton’s wheel round a silver-topped trolley from which you can have Dorset lamb, Blythburgh pork, Honey glazed gammon, beef wellington or salmon coulibiac with pickled cucumber, depending on the day. You’ll enjoy the fanfare with which these arrive – the theatrical flashes of the carving knives interspersed with friendly banter from the waiters.
The steaming plate arrive with sides piled high. Say yes to all the sauces - they pair the flavours perfectly. There’s an à la carte menu too, and a desert list ripping with flavours.
What’s next? Tea, coffee, chocolate caramels that liquify slowly on the tongue. The bill? You can’t believe it’s come so soon. You should have stayed longer – you’ll just have to come back.
For more information or bookings visit their website.