Rules

I had been meaning to get to Rules for years. I will not wait that long again.

The room is exactly what you want it to be: the oldest dining room in London, and it shows in the velvet. We were seated near the back, given menus we hardly needed, and brought a small bowl of olives without being asked.

We started with chopped salad with too much bacon, exactly right, which set the tone — generous, unfussy, and confident enough not to crowd what was coming. With it we ordered a heavy California zinfandel, no apologies, and were glad of both.

Then the main event: steak and kidney pie, then a châteaubriand, the dish that puts Rules on every short list. It was, frankly, the best version of this cut I have had this year. The signature touch — game from their own estate — is not a gimmick; it is the reason to come.

For sides we asked for creamed spinach so rich it should embarrass us and wild mushrooms in butter. Both arrived hot, both arrived early, both were exactly large enough to overdo it. We overdid it.

Dessert was a wedge of chocolate cake to share, fork divided, mostly because the waiter raised an eyebrow when we hesitated. He was right to.

Some places earn their reputation. Rules earns it twice over.