The Arlington, Mayfair
The Second Coming
I am walking through the streets of St James past The Ritz hotel; they reek of British privilege and smell like preen spirit, but I am on a mission.
They say never meet your heroes, but technically I am going to dinner at The Arlington in London not to meet my hero, but rather, I am going to where my hero made his name, and many others. But firstly, the back story. The hero in question is Jeremy King, who once owned Le Caprice restaurant back in 1981 with his business partner Chris Corbin. In 2000, the restaurant was sold to the rag trader turned hospitality trader Richard Caring, who then closed it during the pandemic. Mr King took over the lease in 2024, although his request for the use of name ‘Le Caprice’, was capriciously rejected by the aforementioned Mr Non-Caring.
I have a confession to make. Even though I am a Catholic, albeit a lapsed one, Jeremy King is my own personal Jesus. Which is strangely coincidental when you consider that his legendary maître’d is a gentleman by the name of Jesus Adorno. He really does work in mysterious ways.
Three of the greatest waiters I have ever worked with or been served by are disciples of this Prophet of charm and wisdom. Every blessed apostle has gone out and spread the gospel of hospitality to the hungry and the sinful. Each one has regaled me with stories of a floor team that were so synchronised that speaking was not required; the silent affable assassins; the SAS of floor staff; a team who only communicated with a gentle nod or a simple facial expression. Every one of them effortlessly discreet whilst looking after the likes of Madonna, Kate Moss and the most famous of regulars, Princess Diana. These waiters were so good that they could catch a dropped knife before it touched the ground. No one could out sell, out charm or out run these super waiters. No one.
I walk under the iconic blue awning and enter through the famous revolving door with the anticipation of a giddy altar boy about to have his first kiss but unsure if he can speak in tongues. The room has been restored to its original black and white retro lustre; there are mirrors everywhere I look, candle lit tables are set with fine glassware and highly polished cutlery, each one draped in starched white cloths; the black tiled floor joins the walls that are adorned with various black and white David Bailey prints of Mick Jagger, Andy Warhol, Barry Humphries and other forgotten celebrities. The gentle tinkling of a tiny grand piano and the rattle of vigorously stirred martinis are the only sounds I can hear.
It is 6 pm on a Saturday night and the room is strangely quiet, a throng of distracted waiters loiter in the corner, drinks are ordered, and after protracted discussions and manoeuvrings, the wobbly table is de wobbled. The room isn’t the only element that has been faithfully restored, the menu has also travelled time from 1981; the prices have changed, but not drastically. Original dishes such as Bang Bang chicken, the Crispy duck, cashew nuts and watercress salad, Shepherd’s pie, Risotto Nero, and Salmon fish cake with sorrel sauce all make an appearance.
A Provençal fish soup, (a steal at £12), is a brilliant orange elixir of red mullet, shellfish, saffron and anise, blended into a heavenly purée that dances in your mouth; a thick rouille and gruyere topped croutons add texture and authenticity. A disc shaped ceviche of sea bass is also excellent. My gnarled arthritic fingers try and balance the large cubes of the superior white fish cured with lime, bound with diced and puréed avocado, jalapeño, coriander on to the fried tostadas; they spill down on to the plate with the thud of a cordless bungy jumper.
The Salad of duck, cashew nuts and watercress is a dish that should have stayed in the 80’s.The fried duck meat is closer to duck jerky, it has been fried and dried, the watercress is limp, the cashews are rancid, the caramel dressing is exceedingly sweet; a toupee of bean sprouts is the final flourish on what am I sure in 1981 was known as a ground breaking 'Oriental’ salad.
A main course of calves' liver bears the distinctive marks of the char grill, the rosy, pink meat is cooked to a perfect medium rare; its rich, savoury flavour offset by an exemplary sauce Diable, a piquant reduction of demi glacé and red wine vinegar. Crisp rashers of bacon, sage and colcannon (mashed potato mixed with shredded cabbage) complete an old school dish that shines.
A wondrous Lobster Thermidor soufflé is the Elizabeth Taylor of iconic seafood dishes; rich, wobbly and decadent. The ethereally delicate mousse is gratinated with cheese and sits in a luxurious pool of lobster butter sauce with generous chunks of lobster; a perfectly dressed petit green salad is served on the side.
The dessert list features the bistro classics, Lemon meringue pie, Baked cheesecake and Chocolate mousse. An Elderflower jelly has a firm, highly chewable Kardashian silicon like texture, that imprisons fresh strawberries and raspberries. I am still suffering survivor’s guilt. The individual apple tarte tatin is adequate but suffers from poor execution, it has not been caramelised for long enough, the edges of the pastry are chronically anaemic and pasty, the cinnamon ice cream is too icy.
As I plod up the hill, the question that rattles around in my Chablis addled brain is;
“Is the second coming worth the effort?” The answer is a resounding yes.
Certainly, the old school nursery food can be a little uneven, but there many more hits than misses at this delightful reincarnation of a seminal restaurant. Kudos to Jeremy King who at 70 years young has achieved incredible success in the hospitality business; he could be relaxing sipping cognac around the fireplace or hunting pheasants. Instead, he has decided to re-birth a restaurant that he loves; a restaurant that he has a lifelong connection to. A restaurant that diners have also loved for decades. A restaurant where young waiters will be mentored and challenged by the great man. A restaurant that Jeremy King will guide into the next decade and beyond. I applaud his enduring commitment to his brethren of customers and the wider industry.
I may not have met my hero, but I did get to visit his birthplace.
Hallelujah to that.
Arlington, Mayfair, London
https://www.arlington.london/