The Savoy Grill is a famous restaurant in a famous hotel and it knows it. Although it is managed by Gordon Ramsay, with his TV horns and tabloid nightmares, it is still reeling with self-importance, an elderly debutante who once jumped on John Wayne in the loo. The view is of a taxi rank and a queue of tourists in sports jackets being shepherded by a man dressed as a penguin. But still the very name is awe.
The refurbishment is done and the piles of brown leather that made me think of camels have gone. It is art-deco glossy now, gloomy and sexy, with chandeliers and lustrous walls, which are possibly aubergine. I didn’t know aubergine could do lustre, but now I do. It is an exhibitionist, a date restaurant, for late-night negotiations with lovers. And I am with my mother.
The other diners seem to be American. Americans love the Savoy, because it was the first London hotel to go en-suite, and they remember and give thanks. Many of them are under ten but still in suits, miniature Lehman Brothers drowning their sorrows with lemonade. So this is a sexy restaurant filled with children, and photographs of the stars who used to come here. I always think this is a mistake, as if Frankie Vaughan ate here once, but now they’ve just got you.
The menu is Olde British, stiff and very big. My mother disappears behind it so it is now a talking menu. Puddings and pies, and a lone Caprese salad (named ‘heritage salad’ for those who hate Italians) kidnapped from a room with more light. The waiter is a real Frenchman, from the south he says, and he looks after us too tenderly.
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