This article is taken from the May 2026 issue of The Critic. To get the full magazine why not subscribe? Get five issues for just £5.
If Jeremy King ever takes up a side hustle, he might consider becoming a show runner. In his reimagining of Simpson’s in the Strand, he has not so much opened a restaurant as achieved the goal of all successful returning series: “world-building”.
Simpson’s was opened in 1828 by Samuel Reiss as the Grand Cigar Divan, moving in 1904 to 100 Strand, where it has been ever since, evolving from a smoking room and coffee house through London’s most serious chess destination, to stalwart of a Hogarthian conception of British cuisine (the vast silver trolleys of roast beef which trundled silently about the dining room were introduced so as not to distract the chess players from their moves).
Simpson’s became an institution until it was an anachronism, fustily keeping up appearances for American tourists and chaps who could no longer afford their club fees, spinning out its own Edwardian twilight in the flatulent reek of the cold buffet.
All but the most superior ghosts have now been exorcised, and Mr King has given Simpson’s back its razzle. The rooms — Nellie’s Tavern in the basement; the ground floor Grand Divan; the sleek, discreet Deco bar and Romano’s upstairs — have been reconfigured as a diverse but coherent whole in which every detail contributes to the cumulative effect of the spectacle.
Romano’s must be one of the prettiest spaces in London right now, sparkling without gaudiness in creams, greens and gold; perfectly assured, with an elusive whiff of mischief.
Newly-painted medallion portraits of early-20th century playwrights survey the room in a gesture towards its past as a first night salon, when, according to a cheerful recollection of the restaurant published in the Tatler of June 1934 “‘wine’ meant Champagne and the shorter word served in ordering it”.
Food is a very cordial entente of French brasserie and English ingredients, with starters including Russian salad, pork pie with piccalilli, and braised celery hearts in bone marrow crumb; and mains covering steak frites, Cumberland sausage, Lancashire hot pot and pork faggots.
We began with an unadorned half-pint of fresh prawns and a perfectly conceived Portland crab and fried egg crumpet: crisp and yielding, sprightly sea-notes and rich, emollient yolk making it even more joyful to eat than “crumpet” is to say.
“Pies of the day” is another delightful phrase; sadly too many of Romano’s customers had already concurred, as the beef and ale was finished, as was the Brixham fish, though veal and crayfish marengo was excellent: fresh and herby, its tomato reduction complementing rather than drowning the flavour of the meat.
I was already dreaming about Saturday’s pie of beef shin, snail and garlic, but the haddock goujons with tartare sauce and buttered peas almost made up for it, not least because they allowed for pudding.
Vanilla tart with a smooth shimmy of pouring cream was generous and fragrantly nostalgic, the perfume of the pod rising slowly through the cool silkiness of the custard. The menu takes savouries seriously, offering toast soldiers with Gentleman’s Relish, angels on horseback and more crumpets with Marmite and cheese, though if the concept veers slightly towards nursery retro, the styling doesn’t.
Romano’s pricing would be exceptionally decent anywhere; in the West End, it’s extraordinary. The prix fixe menu at £21.00 for two courses or £24.75 for three — or the daily formule at £29.75 for three courses, including a glass of wine or a beer — make it better value and inestimably more pleasurable than Pizza Express.
The wine list is brilliant for cost and variety: a wide choice by the glass, plenty of bottles under £50 with some judicious heavy hitters at the bottom. Best of all, there are 11 whites and reds by the 500ml carafe if one is feeling restrained, or in our case rejoicing in a Sancerre and a 2019 Léoville Barton for less than we might have paid for a bottle of either elsewhere.
Aside from the opening of Simpson’s, 1904 was notable for the original Bloomsday, the stage premiere of Peter Pan and the release of the first Rolls Royce. It was also the year that Chekhov’s last play, The Cherry Orchard, premiered in Moscow, a comedy of feckless passivity set against the ineluctable incursions of the 20th century.
In an earlier letter, Chekhov had delineated his aim of capturing the drama contained within the apparent calmness of everyday life: “People eat their dinner, just eat their dinner, and all the time their happiness is being established or their lives broken up.” Dinner is never just dinner, so at Simpson’s one is given an assured taste of the moment before the axes come for the blossoms.
Making customers happy is surely the most obvious goal of any restaurant, yet so many fail. Simpson’s is unselfconsciously aimed at pleasure and succeeds superlatively. English food which isn’t either arch and twisted or leadenly gouty is a really difficult thing to pull off, particularly in such a grand setting, and this is where Mr King’s sprezzatura is discernible. Simpson’s confidently transports its customers, for a while at least, to a world which has no suspicion of charm.
Simpson’s in the Strand, 100 Strand, London, WC2R 0EZ, 0207 936 8112
