Old-school luxury

I'm all for putting the wind up institutions. And I'm not one of those who have been bemoaning Gordon Ramsay's Hannibal-like march across London's ossified hotel dining rooms. Whether I've liked the detail or not is another thing, but I certainly applaud the initiative.

This time around, Ramsay's taking a back seat. Despite being co-investor, he's letting protègè Marcus Wareing (of Petrus fame) dice with the ire. The announcement of the takeover/revamp of The Savoy Grill drew audible groans from the Establishment; it had been the canteen of choice for a conservative (small and capital 'C') bunch of mandarins, since God fell off the bus. And it's also a place that has commanded an almost obsessive devotion from its fans - most of whom would regard being called reactionary as something of a compliment.

Sadly, The Grill had begun to look its age, its devoted fans either too elderly or not frequent enough visitors to afford it the buzz of the genuinely thriving destination. Not any more. Wareing has overseen a brilliant job of restoration, revealing something of a masterpiece.

With American designer Barbara Barry, The Grill's been burnished and polished until it breathes old-school luxury and contemporary vibrancy. Every surface shimmers with a sonowsweetie art deco-style opulence, from the stripped-to-its-warm-glory wood panelling to the silver leaf on the ceiling. Even The Grill's head man and doyen of restaurant managers Angelo Maresca - who'd expressed reservations at the outset - now oversees his gorgeous new room with palpable satisfaction.

The à la carte dinner menu is very Petrus, bouncing with classical French technique and ingredients. After a deliriously heady amuse bouche of truffled mushroom soup, we declined a drink from the magnificent champagne trolley and kicked off with a fillet of rainbow trout, slow-cooked to a delicate lightness with braised fennel hearts, a generous dollop of Oscietra caviar and a whisper of mousseline sauce; and a soothing veloutè of asparagus with the punch of smoked haddock and an emollient bath from the yolk of poached quail's egg.

Wareing's head chef Josh Emmet can do earthy, too, as demonstrated by melting slabs of Wiltshire pork belly - so pungent and bacony that some of its accompaniments ran and hid - with sauteed Jerusalem artichoke, braised onions, artichoke purèe, a sticky reduction of Banyuls and a slightly too bland sweet apple sauce. Paying a £10 supplement on the fixed price of £35 a head brought a whole roasted lobster: a big old chunk of fine Scottish crustacean with masterful linguine in a sauce made with white Port.

Sorbets were zingy distillations of intense fruit flavour; a rice pudding with caramelised pineapple and banana ice cream was a dessert of such creamy, rich beauty that it made me forgive the many school-dinner crimes committed in its name.

Purists might like to note that the clientele is still very Savile Row, and there wasn't the slightest suggestion of a Posh and Becks-type influx. It was all rather splendid. But while I might not miss the choreographed cloche lifting, or the dingy net curtains, or the faint miasma of elderly meat, I must confess to wishing that the evening menu had retained just one or two less evolved dishes, for old times' sake.

On the lunch menu - priced at an extremely reasonable £21 for three courses - there's my beloved Omelette Arnold Bennett (invented at The Grill), potted shrimps with Melba toast and roasted best end of lamb. Next time - and there will be a next time - I'm going to pretend that I'm a captain of industry and go for lunch.