A lot has already been written about Prince Arthur because, when you cook over open flame, consider “turbot dripping” a valid ingredient, and top lots of things in caviar, well, you’re going to create a stir. That’s the modern / Instagram-y world in which we live. Give them a visual, be it cheese pull, gravy dip, dancing fire or signature decadence (or all / any of the above), and they will come. And take photos. And fill food Instagram.
So, yes, while walking towards this rather imposing building a shortish stroll from Victoria Station, my thoughts veered from the cynical (“oh great, a social media sensation beloved by people who, very often, don’t know a thing about food”) to the practical (“it’s tough out there, so do whatever it takes to make your restaurant a success”). I stumbled in, a confused, slightly sweaty mess, hoping to find some answers. What exactly is Prince Arthur?
And I can tell you. Prince Arthur is, mostly, a very, very good restaurant. While they’re certainly aware of what engages on social media, this is a place of style AND substance.
The name might suggest a gastropub, but here the emphasis is on the first two syllables, rather than the final third one: you could, probably, pop in for a pint, and maybe a snack or two, but I suspect you’ll be in the minority if you do. The better bet is to come hungry, give yourself over to an entire evening, resign yourself to a three-figure spend and expect to go home very full and very happy.
Anyway, back to that confused, sweaty mess. The cynical side of me was to the fore on arrival, a mood not helped by being seated, already red-faced and sweating, between a wood-fired grill and the roaring fireplace. Really? I thought. That’s how it’s going to be? And then Arish stepped up. I was sitting there, he explained, because it was the best view… but it’s a little hot, isn’t it? He enquired, as he opened the back door for a couple of minutes, to let a little cool air in and return me to my normal pale skin tone. Damn, I thought, this guy’s good… and he kept up that near psychic level of service throughout the meal.
Food at the Prince Arthur
At heart, it’s a relatively simple menu, just one where simplicity gets dressed up with some decadent additions, such as the aforementioned turbot-dripping potatoes and two “house caviars”. The spuds are a joy: think squares of Quality Chop-esque confit potatoes, crisped in turbot fat, and topped with tuna or Txanguro crab. We opted for the latter, as well as the Devilled Eggs, with Baerii Caviar, which have already become something of a cult for, frankly, very good reason. At Arish’s suggestion, we also had the chutoro crudo, with lemon oil and, as ever, he was absolutely right; it’s a glorious plate of food.
For mains, despite wandering past a vast array of whole fish on the counter, there was one obvious choice: a slab of Galician blond beef rib, with its delicious, aged, soft, melty fat. With sides of salt-crusted potatoes and excellent wood-grilled peppers, it was a testament to the power of great ingredients, cooked simply and with respect. We were also urged towards the lobster rice, with saffron aioli. On another night, this would have been the star, but compared to the straightforward joys of aged beef, particularly with Arish’s recommendation of a terrific Rioja by Macán Clásico, it couldn’t quite compete.
The dessert menu is short but punches well above its weight. The inevitable Basque cheesecake occupies the bit of a Venn Diagram where “pudding” meets “soup”, and that’s really not a complaint. Also great was the Torrija – a little bready/cakey, thin caramelised in sugar and Guinness, that’s sweet and crunchy on the outside, squidgy and rich on the inside. The accompanying Guinness ice cream didn’t add anything but, with the apparently psychic Arish working his magic again, a scoop of olive oil ice cream was damned near perfection.
A glance around the dining room suggested that Prince Arthur had already worked its smoky ways into the hearts of Belgravia’s residents and visitors, and done it across a wide range of ages, too. It’s not hard to see why. Believe the hype, Prince Arthur is a wood-fired, caviar-covered hit.
Prince Arthur, Belgravia
11 Pimlico Road
London
SW1W 8NA
United Kingdom
