Wiltons

London, 
2001 

While cleaning out the attic this weekend, I came across a box of forgotten newspaper  clippings. One of the articles appeared in the New York Times in October 2006. It was written by R. W. Apple, Jr., an associate editor who died earlier that month. Known to friends and colleagues as “Johnny,” the celebrated gourmet recounted his ten favorite restaurants during many years of travel. Reading the piece as if for the first time, I was delighted to see a place that would also be on my short list—Wiltons in London. Excerpts from the article and a menu from the period are shown below. 

“Clubbish in location, in looks and for the most part clubbish in clientele, wonderful Wiltons in fact affords a cheerful, courteous welcome to all who show up in properly sober clothes, ready to pay the sobering prices. The best English food (as opposed to the best food in England, which is so grandly cosmopolitan these days) is still that which has been least messed about with. That is just what Wiltons delivers. ‘Noted since 1742 for the finest oysters, fish and game,’ it says of itself, with every justification. 

“You might start with a half-dozen oysters. They will set you back a pretty penny, but then they are imposing creatures, five inches across, pale beige rather than silver-gray, in shells as flat as saucers. They come from West Mersea, on an island off the Essex coast, from beds that are harvested exclusively from rowboats, lest oil or gasoline pollute the waters. They are opened by London’s best oysterman, Patrick Flaherty, a 40-year veteran when I last checked. None of the briny juices escape. No nasty bits of shell creep in. Then maybe a wild salmon from the Spey in Scotland (increasingly rare), or a snowy hunk of halibut — ‘a nice piece of fish,’ as I once heard Rex Harrison call it. 

“But whole Dover sole is the overwhelming choice of English connoisseurs: brushed with melted butter, sprinkled with salt and pepper, turned quickly on the grill so that the grill bars burn a dark lattice pattern into the fish, then cooked under the intense heat of the broiler for roughly 12 to 15 minutes. Perfectly simple, simply perfect and entirely sufficient. This is the porterhouse steak of fish. No sauce is needed, partly because cooking the fish whole (‘on the bone’) helps to keep it moist. You may well come across an occasional apostate who insists upon tartar sauce (much too robust, in my view) or hollandaise (too rich). In game season, both partridge and grouse are exemplary.” 

Dining at Wiltons can be a memorable experience. In the evening, you might even catch a glimpse of a member of the royal family. Other than the cuisine, what I remember about this luncheon in 2001 were the dapper art dealers sitting at the bar, each absentmindedly picking at his food while perusing a Sotheby’s catalog during a midday break at the auction house. The scene was quintessential London, as much as the Queen’s Guard outside Buckingham Palace, a leisurely 13-minute stroll from the restaurant. 


Note: 
1. R. W. Apple, Jr., “An Epicurean Pilgrimage: Meals Worth the Price of a Plane Ticket,” New York Times, 22 October 2006.