Rules

Walking into Rules for the first time is a small piece of theatre, and that is before any food has arrived.

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 a half-dozen oysters from the raw bar, which set the tone — generous, unfussy, and confident enough not to crowd what was coming. With it we ordered a quiet Brunello from the back of the list, 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. There was a thumb of butter melting into the cross-hatch, and a single sprig of thyme on top, and not one thing more. The signature touch — game from their own estate — is not a gimmick; it is the reason to come.

For sides we asked for skin-on fries, twice-fried and potato gratin with a dark crust. Both arrived hot, both arrived early, both were exactly large enough to overdo it. We overdid it.

Dessert was crème brûlée with a proper glass crust, mostly because the waiter raised an eyebrow when we hesitated. He was right to.

If you are passing through London, do not pass Rules by.