With its enviable location and patronage that dates back to 1908, Dukes London, the home of GBR, is a bonafide institution. With chef Nigel Mendham at the helm for the last decade, winning critical acclaim, I was eager to escape the din of the city and be seated in this stalwart of St. James.
I arrived in the city a little before 5pm for the briefest of meetings at The Arts Club. The Ruinart flowed alongside some rather scintillating conversation before I had to politely make my excuses. “You won’t join us for dinner?” Ricardo proffered. “I would, of course, love to, Ricardo, but I’m afraid I have a reservation that simply cannot be missed”. To be late for dinner at GBR would be an affront to all that I hold in high regard.
I suspect you’ll already be well aware of Duke’s redoubtable neighbours in Berry Bros, JJ Fox, Lock & Co and Clarence House. Dukes itself was formally the London Chambers for the British aristocracy and, prior to that, home to a small inn until 1885. Its resplendent Victorian and Georgian townhouses played host to Elgar, Byron, Wilde and Chopin.
As I made my way down St James Street in the early evening, bound for GBR, it occurred to me that I actually might not have visited the establishment before. Since leaving the city many years ago, my incursions are now swift, involving too many meetings, outlandish parking and ideally a glut of something self-indulgent. My memories of being whisked from bar to restaurant to club and beyond are now fleeting. But there was something slotted away in my ageing grey matter that told me I had visited Dukes. It’s iconic location, the slowly swaying Union Jack above the door, the redbrick façade beneath the climbing green ivy all contributed to my combination of déjà vu and amnesia.
Entering through Dukes’ quiet courtyard, I was becoming ever more convinced I had been here before. I imagine the hotel concierge might have found me a little odd as my eyeline moved around the room, frozen on the spot. “Can I help you, sir?”
“Absolutely, I have a dinner reservation at GBR and, whilst I’m sure I have been here before, I don’t recall dining.” “Not a problem, sir, down the corridor to the lift then left at the bottom.”
The halls are adorned with oils and fine art as you might expect. I unknowingly skipped one of the more theatrical features, the original wood panelled lift and took the stairs. Though I suspect my waist would thank me for it in the longer term, should it become a habit.
GBR, upon first glance, is a relaxed, all-day dining affair, but with all the elegance and charm one expects from this postcode. The reclaimed parquet flooring gives off a warm honey glow and is well complemented by the striking double-globe wall lights. The inviting arabascato marble tabletops gleam with an edge ringed in brass. Arguably the restaurant’s centrepiece is the aged brass cocktail bar, which pays homage to the hotel’s well-researched roots as the birthplace of the shaken-not-stirred Martini. Head bartender-for-life Alessandro Palazzi is an institution whether you like your Martini dirty or otherwise. Dukes is indeed the location where Sir Ian Flemming would regularly knock back many, so the story goes.
Rather than take up a table and Inside Out-designed chair, I opted for the most discreet space I could see: an end-of-row banquette seat to avoid the interest of any fellow diners. As my guest was yet to arrive, I ordered a gin and tonic and bided my time. Despite the restaurant being rather quiet that evening, the revellers upstairs at Dukes Bar had clearly finished an early supper at GBR and were painting the town Farrow & Ball red. This private affair rather suited me, all things considered, rarely do I get to enjoy a quiet and restorative moment in the city. I perused the menu. Blackbrow pork rib-eye, River Fowey mussels, monkfish scampi and Cumbrian neck of lamb. This wasn’t going to be an easy choice. I am not famed for my decision-making when it comes to a fine-dining menu. The fear of missing out on a signature dish is momentarily worrying.
Luckily, at that point, my guest arrived and saved me from the briefest moment of indecision. Ben Bond has just finished his feature film directorial debut, The Drifters. Having premiered at the opening weekend of the Sao Paulo International Film Festival, Jonathan Ajayi was nominated for a British Independent film award for most promising newcomer. Good company, one might say.
We started with a ham hock scotch egg that was deceptive, in that it was both incredibly moreish and had the mass of dark matter. I eventually convinced Ben to fork in with me as we unsurreptitiously shared the starter. It’s the sort of dish that thankfully requires too much prep time for me to cook at home.
After a socially frowned upon cigarette in the courtyard, we returned for our main. Had I toured Dukes in advance, I would have had the foresight to book the Cognac and Cigar Garden: a secluded smoking space within the hotel, hosted in partnership with Rémy Martin. Though now I have a reason to return – one not to be ignored.
Bavette was indeed the order of the day. As with all skirt cuts, the richness of flavour and gamey quality has been a fervent favourite of mine for years. Washed down with a Brunello Riserva 2006, it’s a splendid dish.
It was clear from the get-go that Ben had already had his glut of food and fine wine and so by this point was suggesting a move to a digestif in the form of a Lagavulin. I was all too happy to oblige. Shortly after, it was agreed that as Ben’s train departure was fast approaching, we should make some headway across town. The Duke’s team were more than happy to arrange a carriage and, having little in the form of willpower after a few drinks, I made my way to Dukes’ bar for a pack of cigarettes. The atmosphere was palpable as hotel guests and cocktail aficionados threw back libation after libation. A weaker man might have thrown caution to the wind, booked a room and settled in for the duration. Had my drinking partner not exited stage left, I no doubt would have been in situ at the witching hour.
If rumour and tabloid is to be believed (yes I hear myself), Dukes might very rarely count the most estimable of patronages to its hallowed halls. It was suggested earlier this year that a passage might exist allowing patrons from the palace access to a gin and dubonnet or three. Which can mean only one thing: I need to return post-haste with my drinking legs and possibly a head torch. Until December.
Dukes Hotel www.dukeshotel.com
