Arlington is named for the 1st Earl of Arlington and his street behind the Ritz Hotel. It used to be Le Caprice, which was opened in 1947 by the Italian Mario Gellati, who would not, by the new rules, get into Britain now, but this is not a column about pain. In 1981 Le Caprice was taken over by Chris Corbin and Jeremy King, and it became the most fashionable restaurant in London. Princess Diana dined here and when Jeffrey Archer was released from prison, he ate here.
None of
these dishes could be improved. Five stars, no notes
After an interregnum from Richard Caring, under which Le Caprice closed in 2020 – it could not compete with Caring’s mad themed restaurants across Piccadilly – Jeremy King, who is more emotional and skilful than most restaurateurs, returned here. Le Caprice was his first restaurant. ‘It is in my DNA, my very soul,’ he has written, ‘I cannot contemplate it without emotion.’ He renamed it Arlington because Caring’s Caprice 2 cannot be ruled out. I last ate here in 2016 when it was Caring’s Caprice and it felt ghostly and necrotic: Madame Tussauds but you eat the waxworks.
Corbin and King lost their restaurants, which were among the best in London, in 2022, and this is part of a renewal. King has poured all his love into Arlington, and it has the air of a wedding or family reunion. He understands that diners are seeking love, not breadsticks – the breadsticks are incidental – and now they have it back and are delighted. King is an old-fashioned restaurateur, and he walks between tables. Hedge funds don’t do that. They can’t. They don’t have legs, and they don’t live here anyway.
Arlington glows like Oz, but I have examined the before and after photographs on Instagram: King documented the rebirth. ‘1981 reimagined #NotLeCaprice’ is his tagline. It is bright-lit and monochrome with a mirrored bar and black leather stools, and it is filled with David Bailey’s portraiture: beautiful Michael Caine; Barry Humphries trying to conceal his intelligence and failing; Peter Sellers trying to conceal his rage, likewise failing; Joan Collins and Steven Berkoff looking as if they are off to a bunk-up at the Ritz. Homage works if the present is as well-loved. The strange and the familiar are in balance and, due to this careful alchemy, it is full on a Sunday night.
The food is classic British cuisine, and it is expertly done. We have a round shepherd’s pie. They bring Lea & Perrins sauce unasked – they plonk it down – and this is when I know this is a perfect restaurant. Then salmon fish cake with sorrel sauce; tuna loin and white asparagus; chicken Milanese with rocket, parmesan and mash; crème brûlée; a rhubarb crumble; then hokey pokey, which is a sundae by another name. None of them could be improved. Five stars, no notes.
I struggle to understand why these are such great restaurants, and I think this: you might meet Michael Caine, it is true, but you will also meet yourself when happy. King has a gift for involving all in his dreamworlds. I don’t ask why, but I long to meet his childhood self.
He is also a trendsetter. When he opened the Wolseley in 2003, every new opening in London for a decade was, or seemed to be, a grand European café: London was a city of them, and it incited a small schnitzel boom. Maybe the 1980s aesthetic will return now, and with it an economic boom: it’s the only indication I have found so far. Keir Starmer, who should eat here, as should you (it’s £50 a head if you are thrifty) can only hope so.
Arlington, 20 Arlington Street, London SW1A 1RJ; tel: 0203 856 1000.
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