St Christopher reigns in Victoria

This review was first published in November 2000

It had been a very 'hotel' sort of day. I had enjoyed a pot of Assam tea with the next editor of the FT in the David Collins-designed bar at Claridge's. Unfortunately, we could not make it into the Thierry Despont-designed lobby as we were not judged to be sufficiently high rollers. However, I did spot Prince Ernst Hanover and his lovely new princess, while the next editor of the FT bounded up to her old friend Dr Henry Kissinger, who clasped her to his bosom.

After such excitement we did a spot of shopping then headed to The Ritz. Here, in the Palm Court, we bumped into a charming American heiress sipping wine with a young man who was wearing no socks. The heiress and I had a rewarding discussion about big hair and the Caribbean novels of Graham Greene.

Then it was off to a shop opening on Bond Street, after which I came back to The Ritz to enjoy a flute with my friend, Jeremy Hackett, the chairman of Hackett, who was clad in an extremely elegant checked flannel suit. We were fortunate to be asked to join Sir Giles and Lady Shepard for drinks. Sir Giles is one of the last gentlemen hoteliers, and I would dearly love to have joined him for dinner. However, the chairman and I were dining at another hotel - the salubrious and fragrant Grosvenor Thistle Hotel adjoining Victoria Station.

One could never accuse Victoria Station of being the epicentre of fine dining. I recall the area had a higher-than-average concentration of Big Uns Ribs outlets and Casey Jones hamburger restaurants. The latest addition to the gastronomic delights of the area is in keeping with its strong American-restaurant tradition. But happily, all similarities end there.

After about 18 months of negotiations, Christopher Gilmour has opened a branch of his eponymous Covent Garden surf-and-turf operation in what I suppose must once have been the dining-room of this imposing Victorian hotel.

My only memories of The Grosvenor are of an endearingly tatty place, so I was taken aback to encounter Simon Drummond-Brady, late of Morton's, bathed in the light of a neon lobster, busy sweeping the front steps obviously in anticipation of our arrival.

Seeing D-B's face was not the only agreeably familiar sensation of the evening; Christopher's chef Adrian Searing was also working in the kitchens, which meant that the food was actually rather fine.

Moreover, the cavernous interior of Christopher's Victoria recalls the elegant first-floor dining-room of its Covent Garden sibling. The feeling is enhanced by the shared signature of tarantula-like chandeliers dangling from the ceiling.

My only problem with the room is that someone, probably an absent-minded interior decorator, has left two olive trees to die right in front of the main entrance. Otherwise, it is a fantastic space: cavernous, colonnaded and rather glamorous.

Service is not as slick as it might be. A man wandered over with a beautifully arranged basket of interesting-looking breads. I expected him to run me through them. Finally, I gave up expecting and asked him straight out, to which he answered that some of them were brown and that others - the ones covered with poppy seeds - were 'peppered'.

After a slightly shaky start, service improved and food arrived with a commendable rapidity. The Nantucket lobster cake benefited from a delightfully smoked flavour, while the baked cod with 'smashed' (but not quite mashed) potatoes was a pleasant, comforting dish which was exactly why I had chosen it. The chairman dutifully worked his way through a bowl of chowder and then went on and on about how he had not eaten steak for ages, before ordering the salmon cakes. They looked splendid, and the sauce was, as the chairman so eloquently put it, 'delicious'.