My love affair with the Wolseley

I was sitting alone at a small table in the Wolseley, Piccadilly, waiting for my supper and feeling a sense of absolute contentment. The evening buzz in that theatre-set of a restaurant has always been slightly more subdued than the lunchtime one. The lighting is lower; there are candles, there is calm. On my right, a duke dined with his family; on the left, two celebrated actors next to a young rising star. There were elderly couples from New York who believed in dressing for dinner in glitter and diamonds; there were discreet lovers, old friends. The waiter was perfectly attentive – not too little, nor, importantly, too much. Wolseley waiters do not gush.

My smoked salmon arrived, with thin brown bread and butter, half a lemon wrapped in gauze. I sighed.

Most popular

David Butterfield

Most-read 2024: Decline and fall – how university education became infantilised

‘You cannot,’ a friend once said to me, ‘be in love with a restaurant.’