Franco’s on Jermyn Street remains one of those quintessentially London institutions that feels as essential to the fabric of St James’s as a well-cut shirt from Turnbull & Asser or a quiet stroll through the arcade. Established in 1945, shortly after the war’s end, it stands as one of the city’s oldest Italian restaurants — a claim it wears with quiet, unpretentious authority.
For eight decades it has presided over No. 61, evolving from its post-war austere simplicity into a bastion of timeless elegance without ever succumbing to the vagaries of fashion. The room, with its polished wood, discreet lighting, and air of discreet privilege, could easily have hosted a discreet lunch between MI5 agents in the 1950s or a power breakfast today; the continuity is reassuring in an age when restaurants come and go like seasonal trends.
What truly elevates Franco’s, however, is the service — a masterclass in professionalism that borders on the theatrical, yet never tips into performance. Just as at its sister restaurant, nearby Wilton’s, the staff move with the assurance of people who have seen generations of diners and know precisely how to anticipate needs without hovering. There is no false familiarity, no over-familiarity; instead, it radiates a courteous warmth that makes one feel not merely welcomed but genuinely valued. It is the sort of service that reminds one why dining out was once an occasion rather than a transaction, and it is rarer now than ever. Alas.
We began with a glass apiece of Gavi di Gavi, crisp and mineral-driven, which proves the perfect aperitif to cut through the richness to come. The pappardelle with mixed wild mushrooms and black truffle was a woodland triumph — ribbons of pasta glossy with butter, the mushrooms earthy and intense, the truffle shaved with a liberality that spoke of confidence rather than stinginess.
It was comfort elevated to something almost luxurious. My guest’s linguine with lobster, garlic, chilli, and tomato was another hit, a dish that balanced the sweetness of the lobster against the gentle heat of chilli and the bright acidity of tomato. The pasta was al dente, the sauce clinging perfectly; one could taste the kitchen’s respect for the simple yet divine ingredients.
For the main, there was no competition as to what we wanted. We shared a Florentine steak, that magnificent slab of Chianina beef, charred on the outside, rosy within, and carved tableside with ceremony. It arrived precisely as it should — simple, unadorned, allowing the quality of the meat to speak for itself. Accompanying it were zucchini fritti, light and crisp, dusted with just enough salt, and a generous bowl of divine truffle mashed potato. A glass of Chianti Classico, robust and cherry-scented, was the perfect accompaniment.
To conclude, the classic tiramisu — layered with coffee-soaked savoiardi, mascarpone, and a dusting of cocoa — was about as good as you’ll get in London. And then it was time to leave, replete and happy Franco’s is not chasing Michelin stars or headlines; it simply continues to do what it has done superbly for 80 years. In an era of fleeting pop-ups and Instagram-driven concepts, that steadfast excellence in all its regards is something to cherish. One leaves feeling not just fed, but restored. In Jermyn Street’s quiet, perennially traditional way, Franco’s endures.
Franco’s, 61 Jermyn Street, St James’s, London SW1Y 6LX. For more information, and for bookings, please visit www.francoslondon.com.
