Secrets and pies

I'm not sure I want to write this review. For some time, The Goring has felt like my secret, my Sunday evening, sneaky vodkatini bolthole, a gorgeously anachronistic escape where the staff remember your preferences - 'That's with a twist, isn't it madame?' - and you thrill to occasional sightings of oddities such as older members of the Royal Family or a mini sausage roll canapé.

It seemed as if nobody under 50, or without their own country estate, went there. Its faded, Edwardian correctness and deeply unfashionable Victoria location made me feel as though I was bunking school to play at being grown-up. When I did let people into my confidence, the reaction was usually one of sceptical ennui - 'the boring Goring' - so my secret stayed secret.

But then there were unsettling whispers: Liz Hurley had been seen in the dining room; it was to be made over by Viscount Linley. Was this unreconstructed, family-run relic hurtling recklessly into the 21st century? Well, yes and no.

It's true that the dining room has had rather a dramatic refit. Gone are the room partitions that ensured that, indeed, should you dine beside Her Maj, you were unlikely to know anything about it. And gone are the fusty furnishings and miasma of gravy and Brown Windsor Soup.

Junior Royal Linley has unleashed a calm, creamy and contemporary room without losing any of the stateliness. I'm not usually an admirer of his stuff - there is, of course, a lot of wood - but he's a clever chap. You still get bas-relief crests and arms on the walls but they look quirky rather than historic.

Actually, despite my fears, it all rather works. The only jarring note are some blue-hued, cherry tree branch-like chandeliers I suspect to be Tord Boontje for Swarovski. They cost thousands a pop but in this environment look like something from a Margate gift shop.

But everything else remains: the same codgerish bar, the same liveried flunkies, even the same menu. Phew. Chef Derek Quelch has been catering to a conservative, up-from-the-shires audience long enough to know not to get too fancy and his practised trad-Brit cooking is right on the money.

Maybe his lobster omelette isn't quite as luxurious as the Gary Rhodes version but it's a stalwart bunker of a thing, thick with béchamel and Gruyere and studded with generous chunks of crustacean. The Goring Hors D'Oeuvres brought weeny potted shrimps (well-spiced but not enough butter), excellent Scottish smoked salmon, haddock mousse and the foreign-johnny interloper of Parma ham.

The Goring is noted for its game so I had to have grouse (£10 supplement on a £40 set price: not cheap). It was marvellous: ripe, gamey, well-hung, its purplish meat fell off the carcass into a stodgily delicious pool of bread sauce, breadcrumbs and waffley game chips. A steak and kidney pie featured tender, long-cooked meat with rich, vinous gravy and damned fine pastry.

There's an all-British cheese list. We ordered. And ordered. From Flower Marie to Oxford Blue to Keen's Cheddar to Stinking Bishop, the server's knife never hesitated. Hearty appetites are celebrated at The Goring.