Rules

There are restaurants you visit and restaurants you return to. Rules is, after one quiet Sunday in London, very much the second kind.

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 wedge of iceberg with blue cheese, which set the tone — generous, unfussy, and confident enough not to crowd what was coming. With it we ordered Rioja gran reserva, decanted at the table, 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 buttered haricots verts and grilled radicchio with anchovy butter. Both arrived hot, both arrived early, both were exactly large enough to overdo it. We overdid it.

Dessert was a slab of New York cheesecake, mostly because the waiter raised an eyebrow when we hesitated. He was right to.

I paid the bill, walked out into the London evening, and put the address back into the notebook with a star next to it.