Gustav Temple and Alexander Larman take an early Christmas lunch at the Lanesborough Grill on Hyde Park Corner.
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Larman is usually a punctual chap, but on this occasion he was late for our appointment with victuals at Hyde Park Corner. He had relayed some vaguely literary excuse, something about watching and writing about a documentary concerning the 21st century Beckhams, Harry and Meghan. I amused myself by wandering below the walls of Buckingham Palace to kill time, watching a minor cavalcade of royal pageantry clipping by in carriages towards the Park, swiftly followed by a brace of bulletproof Range Rovers speeding by, flanked by outriders and presumably containing minor royals.
A theme was emerging: H&M are missing out, ensconced in their Beverly Hills belvedere and concentrating on building their ‘brand’. Once Larman had apologised sufficiently, we strolled into the ivory pillars of the Lanesborough, whose entrance resembles a gigantic wedding cake, where discussion about a documentary one of us had to watch and one of will never watch was dispensed (“Depressingly awful”) before we had taken our seats.
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And so to the feast, in the grand atrium of the Lanesborough where, for some reason, everybody else seemed to be consuming red-coloured cocktails. (“Not for the likes of us, old chap”) We prudently stuck to Moët & Chandon while perusing the menu. Christmas had come early for this pair of hacks half frozen by seasonally icy temperatures, and we both plumped for chef Shay Cooper’s take on Christmas lunch, a steal at a more than reasonable £52 per person.
By the time our starters arrived (Pressed terrine of smoked ham hock and guinea fowl with celeriac and mustard seed, and Cured salmon and Lytham shrimp cocktail with horseradish and light oyster cream) Slovenian sommelier Adam Ramic was at our side, casting his expert eye over our selections and immediately deciding which wines we required. For Larman, a glass of the Rock Angel rosé fitted the bill; I was given a fine Slovenian Chardonnay, and it was practically the best white I’ve drunk all year. I warmed to Ramic immediately over some chat of my travels in his native land. Should not a gentleman always have a sommelier at his side providing such comestible guidance?
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And so to Cooper’s attempt to liven up the well-trod path of roast turkey with ‘all the trimmings’, which he managed with ingenuity and panache. There was no doubt as to the fabled moistness of the turkey, squeezed as it was into a succulent medallion, accompanied by a brace of elegant vegetables that paid lip service to traditional Christmas fare, while endorsing them with a freshness and crispness usually absent. Larman and I agreed that the Brussels sprouts had somehow been turned into a thoroughly acceptable – even enjoyable – vegetable, and a couple of glasses of Pinot Noir made the whole repast quite splendid.
While discussing which rock legend Larman would enjoy being given the Baz Lurhmann treatment, as with Elvis Presley, the expected response of ‘David Bowie’ was immediately, and purely by coincidence, serenaded by a rendition of Life on Mars by the chuckling pianist, who seemed to know something nobody else did, judging by the perpetual smile on his chops.
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Perhaps said ivory tickler had sampled Shay Cooper’s puddings. We plumped for, respectively, a dark chocolate ganache with Earl Grey ice cream, and Lanesborough Christmas pudding with brandy sauce and vanilla ice cream, the combined flavours of which were enough to bring a smile to anyone’s lips. Larman was served a glass of a 10-year aged port with his ganache, and there was much good-natured badinage about the size of the bottle that the confident waitress wielded with aplomb; a Jeroboam? A Nebuchadnezzar? A Balthazar? Readers, all we can report is that it was enormous.
Dining at the Lanesborough, in the almost literal shadow of the Palace, provides a return to a more princely, and thoroughly decent, era; an age of steaming horses, carriages, men in red uniforms and dining on honest, hearty fare without any pretentions or pointless innovations. It is an echo of the very world that the Duke and Duchess of Sussex have eschewed in favour of the same new world that all their Californian counterparts crave, and they are disingenuous to reject it. I’ll leave the last word to Larman, who, considering himself redeemed by the quality of the repast, winked at me as we departed, “Now that was far too good for Harry and Meghan.” Reader, I cannot disagree.