After the longest of interruptions in its near 200-year history, Simpson’s in the Strand was reopened to much fanfare in the spring. Immediately, the taxis began queuing up outside of its revolving door to disgorge a steady stream of well-heeled guests into the dining emporium that time forgot.
You may remember Simpson’s just prior to its 2020 closure. Still magnificent after all these years, she was, however, tired – creaky even. The Miss Havisham of restaurants.
So it’s a relief not just that Simpson’s has reopened, but that she has been reborn seemingly better than ever, like a seasoned Hollywood A-lister who somehow appears to be 35 all over again.
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The Grand Divan – the signature restaurant on the ground floor – is restored to its former glory. So sensitive is the renovation that once you settle into one of its green leather banquettes, it’s easy to imagine glimpsing Dickens, Disraeli, Churchill or Conan Doyle across the room – or indeed any of the historical figures who have visited over the years. (As it was, on the day of my first visit, I spotted Jarvis Cocker.)
At the same time, there are concessions to modernity (such as touchscreens for the staff) and the room is so beautifully lit, that one can immediately sense the subtle influence of the proprietor, London restaurant doyen, Jeremy King.
Head upstairs to the bar, which was once so weary, and it is reborn in all its brilliant Art Deco glory. Surrounded by gleaming glassware and bottles, the cocktail waiter has waxed tips to his moustache and wears a white double-breasted waistcoat and immaculate bow tie.
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The whole impression is so breathtakingly pristine that you could be in a Wes Anderson film. Indeed, you half expect Mr Gustave – AKA Ralph Fiennes in The Grand Budapest Hotel – to pop up at any moment.
But, at the end of the day, Simpson’s must be judged on its beef.
Yes, I enjoyed probably the most exquisite prawn cocktail I have ever eaten as a starter; yes that was very, very good and earned its mighty ‘Grand Divan’ billing (and the £18.75 price tag). But it’s the beef that I came for. And it did not disappoint.
You probably know the deal. The warmed Simpson’s monogrammed plate is set before you, alongside a matching dish of roasted vegetables, and then the man dressed in chef whites trundles the silver domed trolley towards you. It is polished to such a glorious shine that you can see yourself smiling as it approaches. Because smile you do.
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Inside is a rib of Devonshire beef that has been aged for 30 days and cooked at a glacial pace, at 50°C for 10 hours. Within the heated dome the beef is kept at between 42 and 52°C, over a warmed bath of water.
Once your beef has been discussed and carved, and gravy served to order, there is the house horseradish to enjoy, an enjoyment enhanced by the lashings of double cream that go into it.
So, how good is it?
I think Edward VII would have wept. I may have shed a tear myself. The beef was tender, delicious, buttery, happy-making. It’s so good, in fact, that you may be obliged to permit yourself the luxury of closing your eyes briefly as you chew it. I certainly did.
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In Plato’s Republic, he offers us his theory of the Forms – the idealised, grandiloquent essences of things. All I can say is that Simpson’s has achieved that with medium-rare beef, and there’s no need to be a philosopher king in order to relish it.
As you emerge from the revolving door you do so with a realisation that, in an age mired by national embarrassments such as the interminable HS2 high-speed rail project or a Royal Navy where seemingly only five ships work, we can still do something that is truly great. Which is what the rebirth of Simpson’s is, make no mistake.
London may have lost some of its shine in the last couple of years, but Simpson’s shows that the capital can still deliver the best that there is to have – a version anchored in our heritage but also very much of the moment.
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Call it soft power on a plate.
They say that when the ravens depart the Tower of London the kingdom will be done for. For me, it’s not down to the ravens. But if they ever stop serving roast rib of beef from the hot trolley in the Grand Divan then I’ll know that it’s curtains.
This article first appeared in Spear’s Magazine Issue 100. Click here to subscribe
