The Ritz, London

“In England, justice is open to all – like the Ritz hotel.” Irish judge Sir James Mathew

 

Well it was a big birthday and the T & S wanted to give me a treat. Various ideas were mulled over, including trips to far flung places. Ever conscious of expense, I suggested a modest train to London, and lunch at The Ritz. More on that in a moment.

I discover I am in good company. The then Prince of Wales celebrated his 54th birthday here: the late Queen her 80th. I ate here once before in the dim and distant past. The place was, and remains, stunning, but the food was merely good. I had read that under Executive Chef John Williams it was now a cut above. I learn that they celebrated my 62nd birthday in 2016 by receiving a Michelin star, which has been retained ever since.

You feel a sense of occasion just walking through the front door (which, confusingly, is on the side of the building, not on Piccadilly itself). I very rarely wear a tie these days, but the dress code of jacket and tie just feels right here. No coincidence that Ritz dining room was the site of the filming of the last ever episode of Downton Abbey. How to describe it? Well, it's just Ritzy.

It takes a particularly talented recruiting staff to find people who can carry off the job with élan while dressed in tail coat and waistcoat, and combine efficiency, ease and empathy with the guests. But no, don't ask Lewis to take your photo - not allowed.

It was a bit quiet when we rocked up at 1, but that soon changed. Some couples celebrating a special occasion like ourselves; some business lunches; and some lively groups of well heeled silver surfers who seem to be regulars. International Anna plies us with a drop of Mrs Clicquot's fizz. Already the world is feeling a very fine place.

Suspend disbelief when the menus arrive. You know it's going to be expensive - if you have to ask the price, don't come. Broadly speaking there are three options. You can have a 3 course fixed price menu, a tasting menu (5 or 7 courses), or go a la carte. As befits a room of such glamour, theatrical touches abound, with various dishes prepared table side, au guéridon. (As you'll remember from your school day French, a guéridon is a small round table).

L orders from the prix fixe and I dive into the carte. But first, fireworks in the shape of some stunning canapes. Do your remember The Borrowers? Tiny people who live behind your skirting boards. Well, I can tell you that they must be employed here. A minute tart of something or other, no bigger than my thumb nail, on the most delicate shortcrust pastry; a filo cigar stuffed with coronation chicken, the whole thing no more than 5 centimetres long; and, most sensational of all, a tiny dome of Parmesan mousse, topped with something smaller than a pea, topped with the tiniest sliver of microherb. Three weeks on, its taste still lingers.

I don't usually mention wine. Some white Burgundy was called for and that's never cheap; however, relative to everything else the prices weren't as outrageous as I had been expecting. And here's something worthy of note. It transpired that the bottle I had ordered was out of stock. Anna returned with the list and recommended a replacement £30 cheaper than my original choice.

L's starter was a tartlet of duck liver with sour cherry and almond. Very nice, not that dissimilar to the starter at 64 Goodge Street the night before. But cue the trumpets. I tend not to photograph food, but behold this dish of Dorset crab. The base is crème fraiche flecked with dill oil. Look at the placing of these tiny arrow shaped herbs. All equidistant; all pointing the same way. And that is a very large blob of caviar, somehow presented in a perfect dome. Wowzer and thrice wowzer. Worth the licence fee alone.

To mains. A dish simply entitled Suffolk Lamb, Roscoff Onion and Mint may not sound much, but I don't think I've ever tasted lamb like it. My turbot was intriguingly called Ton sur Ton, literally tone on tone. It involves not one but two sauces being poured over, one vermouth based, the other sauce Américaine. Stunning. Interestingly no side dishes are offered, presumably to avoid spoiling the artistry on the plates.

We skipped pud, though they bring you some splendid sweeties. For those of a sweet tooth the selection sounded enticing. The Ritz Signature Chocolate Salted Hazelnut, for example, or Champagne Poached Peach, Almond Parfait and Vanilla. And, for the ultimate act of theatre we watched as Crèpes Suzette were prepared for the glamorous couple in the corner. They certainly weren't here on business.

When I said the final act of theatre I was mistaken. After some cheese L fancied a mint tea. Enter a chariot, bearing a samovar and nine types of mint. With a quick slight of hand the chariot driver adds some dry ice as a finale. Later I chat to Lewis, our waiter, reminiscing about my last visit long before he was born. I tell him that chef John Williams is something of a hero of mine. Look out behind you, he said.

Thus I got to meet the great man, have a good chat, and pass on some handy helpful hints. I think he was grateful. He then chatted with the Suzettes. And look who was taking the photo. Well, said Lewis shamefacedly, when John Williams tells you... And quite right too. He really is a lovely man.

I struggled slightly to score this, especially on value. I don't mingle much in Michelin circles, but strange to say, the food prices didn't seem out of step with the equivalent in central London. In fact, my initial reaction was that this would be only the third perfect score in the history of Tom Eats! What pushed it down was the tea. 18 quid for a pot. Come on! You can buy a lot of dry ice for that, and mint grows like wildfire in our garden.

Well, there you have it. Perfection at a price. Not sure about the nightingales singing in nearby Berkeley Square, or whether any of our fellow diners were real angels, but lunching at The Ritz is indeed the stuff of lyrics. As we said to our new friends at the  neighbouring table, also celebrating a birthday, see you next year.