Weekly Review: Arlington
An unexpected intrusion of memory got me thinking about an old friend, first principles of Britishness, and a dinner long ago.
Quick hit: Supremely optimised for a Professional Lunch. Good food. Comfortable with a wry sense of fun.
Details: Booking essential. St. James’s. ££££.
Restaurant website. More on Instagram.
Find it on Google Maps. 20 Arlington St, St. James's, SW1A 1RG.
The full picture: I told myself a hundred times that I wasn’t going to go to the Arlington. I’ve read the anthology of reviews. I’ve made fun of the whole “is it or isn’t it?” Le Caprice thing.
So I had decided — firmly — that I wasn’t going to bend the knee. I wasn’t going to call up and beg for a table. I’m not a celebrity, and I didn’t feel like enduring the inevitable sneering down the line at my not-famous-name and the assumption that my accent makes me a tourist rather than a potential regular.
Then I had a lunch cancel at the last minute, and I went on the website to see if they had a table, and they didn’t. But there was a spot at the counter.
So I grabbed a book, found a blazer, and headed for St. James.
They say there is a strong link between place and memory. And the moment I walked into the Arlington, a memory was restored to me that I thought had long since been erased.
I only visited the old Le Caprice once — with my former boss, mentor, and friend Robert Phillips. For some reason, my brain had retained that simple, chronological fact. But I had lost everything else. Who we were with. What we ate. The experience. It was all gone.
And then it wasn’t.
Robert was a giant in the London PR scene. He was brilliant, acerbic, considerate, and kind. At the same time, he was not everyone’s favourite, and he could be quite hurtful, even to those closest to him.
In 2008, he took a gamble on me and became the force behind my move to London. He then took it on himself to teach me about Britishness. He took me to my first cricket match — at Lord’s. He introduced me to martinis at Duke’s, the morning-after breakfast at The Regency, and the Lobster Thermidor at Scott’s.
He also taught me the value of hospitality in a professional context and showed me how to practice it. He believed that bringing a well-chosen group of people together over dinner was the most valuable thing we could do for colleagues or clients.
Which is why we found ourselves at Le Caprice in 2009 with colleagues from France and Italy. Robert wanted to show off the London food scene — now much elevated from its 70s and 80s wretchedness, and, he believed, on par with Paris and Milan.
We had cocktails and great wine and fresh fish and amazing desserts. There was someone British-famous at the next table. Our colleagues told us they had a wonderful evening — although even Robert had to concede that the food was better in Milan. Relationships were deepened. Hard conversations would be easier in the future because of the time we spent.
Robert passed away from cancer a few years ago, but I hope I learned his lessons well, and that I am applying them today with even a fraction of his gusto and vigour.
I was thinking about all of this while I was perched on a stool, watching the Arlington’s lunch rush play out in the mirror behind the bar.
And I realised: Virtually every table in the place was a Professional Lunch — all there practicing Robert’s philosophy. Even Michael Gove, a couple of tables over.
Moreover, the menu was practically designed with Professional Lunching in mind. There is a stellar wine-by-the-glass list, with a wide range of price options from affordable to indulgent.
The food was similarly well-optimised. I started with the famous Bang Bang chicken. If I’m honest, I would rather have just had satay on a stick, and maybe a little less too-sweet peanut butter flavour. But you can’t use your fingers if you’re lunching with someone you have just met, so the Bang Bang chicken is disassembled and bite-sized. There’s zero risk of getting anything on your shirt.
My tuna loin main course was similarly tasty and entirely manageable. Eavesdropping at the counter, I discerned that the chopped salad — available as a starter or a main — was popular for the same reason. Dessert was a mini tarte tatin, which was likewise very good. Or, more precisely, exactly what you would expect.
The service was excellent, and actually quite friendly, with no sneering at all once I got past the maitre’d stand. There is a wry sense of fun about the place.
If I were entertaining clients or colleagues, I would try harder for a table. There is something comfortable and mildly voyeuristic about the rather small dining room. That said, I often enjoy dining solo, and especially from a perch where I can observe and listen unobtrusively, so I’m glad to recommend the counter for such purposes. (And good counters are too rare in London.)
As I finished coffee and wandered back into springtime in St. James’s — raining and windy, obviously — I had to admit to myself that I had enjoyed the Arlington much more than I expected to.
By tapping into a distant memory and offering an experience that was simply very good, the restaurant succeeded where so many fail — making me feel truly glad I came.
Thinking about Robert also left me a little melancholy. If he had been there to advise me, he would have steered me straight down the street to Duke’s — although it was only 2:00 pm and the bar doesn’t open until 4:00 pm. But I had afternoon meetings to join, and I simply had to button up against the rain and carry on. Sadly for me, that was one of Robert’s lessons in Britishness that never really took.
Apologies that this week’s review is a little longer and more personal than normal. If you have been to the Arlington, I would love to hear about your experience. Please subscribe if you' haven’t already and share this post with friends and colleagues.