Restaurant review: Le Caprice

In recent memory I cannot remember being as impressed by a passing observation as I was when stepping over the threshold at Le Caprice last week, to be offered every table in the restaurant apart from one because ‘we have had one lady who takes that table every Monday night.’

‘She has done for thirty years,’ the maitre d’ added bashfully. Naturally, in a state of unalloyed awe, I opted for the table next to hers.

The restaurant, tucked away in between Piccadilly and St James’s, is one of the most well-known places to dine in London. Never mind the thirty year disciple, Le Caprice is a favoured haunt of the great and the good, of royalty – both real (Princess Margaret was a regular and Lady Di claimed it was her favourite restaurant) and rock (Mick Jagger is rumoured to frequent Le Caprice on a regular basis), and every other foodie in between.

Despite the celebrity, there is a surprising lack of ceremony about the restaurant. This is refreshing – the staff successfully strike the delicate balance of being both courteous and attentive without inducing claustrophobia – a rare feat in today’s customer-is-always-right culture. The decor is neither here nor there (the place is dark) but is probably geared towards Art Deco and there’s an inexhaustible piano player plinking away in the corner.

Why, then, the hype? What makes Le Caprice worthy of a journey every Monday evening for thirty years?

The answer, of course, is the food. Le Caprice’s menu is uncomplicated, comprised of about ten straightforward and beloved dishes: fried fish with pea purée, chips and tartare; rib eye steak with fries and Béarnaise,  duck breast with smoked beets etc. I opted for calves’ liver with sage and bacon (the best liver I have eaten in recent memory) and my companion chose monkfish and prawn curry – also delicious and unfussy. Pudding consisted of chocolate tart and steamed treacle sponge respectively.

Heaven.