Rules

It rained the whole afternoon I spent at Rules, and I cannot now imagine eating there in any other weather.

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 burrata with peaches and basil, which set the tone — generous, unfussy, and confident enough not to crowd what was coming. With it we ordered a glass of port to finish, and then another, 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 pommes Anna and skin-on fries, twice-fried. Both arrived hot, both arrived early, both were exactly large enough to overdo it. We overdid it.

Dessert was key lime pie, mostly because the waiter raised an eyebrow when we hesitated. He was right to.

A perfect Sunday lunch, which is what I came for.