Rolling back the years at 1837

This review was published in April 2002

With the current vogue for locating named restaurants in hotels - Nobu , Vong , Gordon Ramsay , Locanda Locatelli , La Tante Claire , Spoon+ , Albert Roux at the glamorously named Sofitel St James [sic] - and with The Connaught about to undergo tumultuous change, the old-fashioned hotel restaurant is becoming an endangered species.

For the moment there is still the Savoy Grill and, of course, The Ritz , but I thought it was high time I revisited one of the remaining examples of classic grand-hotel dining.

So it was that I came to be spelling out my notoriously difficult surname to the woman who answered the phone at 1837, the restaurant at Brown's Hotel. We both seemed to be hard of hearing so it was an entertaining, if mildly frustrating, few minutes. And when I presented myself at the restaurant, I found that I had been entered as a Mr Souldes - an alias that may come in handy one day.

Brown's is one of those ancient, yet understated, institutions London specialises in - the sort of place you might reasonably expect to crop up in a novel by John Galsworthy. A few years ago it was bought by the same international company that owns Raffles, and tarted up. But beneath all the high-gloss wood polish, and the incredibly busy ruching, swagging and pleating that has been inflicted on the curtains, it is still possible to detect what good hotels in London used to be like.

Once in a while it is worth visiting a restaurant that hasn't been subjected to a ruthless makeover and an aggressive PR campaign. The room may be mock baronial but there is nothing mock about the rest of the operation. This is a bona fide smart restaurant - the staff are all over you like a very solicitous rash, with more napkin unfolding, menu proffering, candle lighting etc than I have seen in a long while.

The customers, too, bring a degree of reality to the proceedings - they are not the usual restaurant whores who troop around London trying out the latest newest thing. There was a shaven-headed man who gave a good impression of Wayne Hemingway from Red or Dead, only without the looks, who was intent on snogging his dinner partner so frequently that I suspected him of having cannibalistic designs on her tongue.

And there was your regulation odd couple: he in short-sleeved open-necked shirt, looking as though he was out for a lager and a kebab followed by a spot of light brawling; she seemingly having slipped into a vintage Bellville Sassoon ballgown for an Eighties revival banquet.

As far as I know, 1837 has not been outed as a favourite hangout of Madonna or Posh 'n' Becks, nor to my knowledge have any sporting personalities fathered children in its broom cupboards. And David Collins has certainly not had a hand in the decoration. So I assume those around me had actually come for the pleasure of the cooking - and what a pleasure it was.

The only slight disappointment was a starter of smoked Ballic salmon, these medallions should, quite literally, disintegrate in the mouth, dissolving into nothing. Instead, these were a little chewy.

Everything else, however, was a triumph, including amuses gueules; amuses desserts and a particularly cleverly cooked bit of Challans duck. However, two elements stood out sharply. The Celtic sea scallops with cauliflower pur?e, caper and raisin sauce was one of those rare dishes that is so good it is in serious danger of becoming addictive - I could have eaten it two or three times over. And then there was the cheese trolley, handled by a young woman with such deftness and encyclopaedic knowledge that I had a plate of cheese as well as an adequate pineapple tarte Tatin.

In fact, dinner was doubly impressive given that the executive chef, a likeable cockney called Andrew Turner - who has a touch of Michael Caine about him - was away, leaving a mere head chef in charge.