New look: the softly lit dining room serves a delicate, often changing tasting menu
(Picture: Matt Writtle)Truth be told, I wouldn’t mind a way to fend off my sentimental feelings, given I find them impossibly persuasive. They strong-arm me into all sorts of scrapes, romantic and otherwise, and recently took me to Brett Graham’s Ledbury after news of its reopening had me dewy-eyed, remembering one of The Great Lunches there, four years ago. Food and service were faultless; the bill was horrendous. Luckily I let my friends pay, which has long been my top tip for enjoying oneself.
“Pricey but near perfect” was the reputation the place cultivated on opening in 2005. By 2010 it had a pair of Michelin stars and come 2011, a reputation for its fighting spirit — literally. That year rioters smashed their way in, so a chef picked up his rolling pin and made a stand. And then no-one messed with the Ledbury until Core by Clare Smyth opened around the corner six years later and committed larceny with the limelight.
The pandemic did worse, so Graham said he would “close indefinitely”. A curious way to put it — but he held onto the keys, so we held our breath.
Anyway, it was remembering all this that had me booking a month in advance for a midweek table at 9.15pm, which was all that they had left, the returning Brett & Co having been met with a hero’s welcome. Damn them.
There has been a sea change. The arrowed wood floor and (frequently ironed) tablecloths remain, as does a dedication to food as delicate and detailed as though it were made of porcelain. But the room, which you might once have said was subtle — in the way that people with an interest in watching paint dry are subtle — has been transformed. It is now one for the night, all mirrors and marble and soft lights, with everything gently tan coloured, like the restaurant just spent a fortnight on the posh side of Ibiza. It’s sexier, in other words; this is a post-break-up Ledbury, glammed up and getting back at its ex.
Service, led memorably by manager Jeremy Harvey, was astonishingly good, the plates presented with an actor’s skill. So, er, the food? Can you tell I’m skirting around it? It would be silly to pretend it wasn’t all cooked so well as to confound — meals without a single mistake are beyond rare (although try Sola for size). There were nods to sustainability and seasonality — retired dairy cow for the charcuterie, mushrooms grown in the restaurant itself, an obelisk of white asparagus. There was unashamed luxury — a great crown of caviar throned on a cauliflower purée, truffle flakes piled like autumn leaves. Occasional moments suggested one of London’s finest talents leading the kitchen: a dazzling orange slice of Hampshire trout had been cooked over coals, its skin a breath of beautiful smoke. Or the sweet Cornish crab, thrown in a snowdrift of frozen citrus, sharp and bright and eye-widening. Jerusalem artichoke tart, with its cinnamon soot, was by turns savoury and sweet, and better for it. Glory glimmered in the distance. We never quite caught up to it.
After reopening, it’s sexier. This is a post-break-up Ledbury, all glammed up and getting back at its ex
What’s my problem? Probably that pesky sentimentality again. The place is probably improved these days — better dressed, more thoughtful food — but somewhere in all this striving for greatness, the idea of a meal as a joyful thing seems to have been forgotten. At £185-a-head and £120 for matched wine, a bill here is probably either an endorsement of your success or a moment to reconsider various life decisions. I left feeling oddly hollow and very poor. Neither feelings one wants to pay for.
Later that week, for the same money, four of us went to the Ritz. And I thought — glibly, I suppose, but perhaps you know what I mean — that if this were to be the last lunch before the air raid sirens sound, there would be nowhere I’d rather go. And then I thought: I don’t suppose I’ll ever go back to the Ledbury. There will be many fans of what it has become, rightly so. Me? I miss the old place. I had fun there.
