Arrive in a lofty atrium with a bar and shopping, then totter up a broad staircase to the first floor where another shop melds seamlessly into an Italian restaurant.
It is hard to find a restaurant in London not called after a celebrity chef and this is called after Giorgio Locatelli. He has wowed London palates and distressed bank managers for decades. Modestly he has called the restaurant Locatelli. I didn’t expect to see him in the kitchen but it did surprise me that the cooking is by Searcys.
You will have been at parties where the catering is by Searcys, a name that knocks Locatelli into a cocked toque. There is a tradition of great British cooks starting in private kitchens and usually getting a financial leg up when they decide to open a restaurant. Tom Travers, notoriously greedy at table and in matters of money, should have set Anatole up with a restaurant. But the 4th Duke of Northumberland did back his pastry chef. In 1848 John Searcy opened a confectionary shop and that’s how it started.
By now you have your legs under the table at Locatelli. If you are at all peckish order the sourdough bread. A whole, warm, delicious loaf arrives (no butter). Other courses are not so substantial but bracingly expensive. The pasta looks as if it belongs in a doll’s house, though it was delicious. You don’t have to be a member but if you are (£68) there is a 10% discount. You may notice after lunch there is an annexe to this eating, drinking, shopping Mecca – it’s called The National Gallery.