The Langham has had its fair share of signature restaurant offerings over the years; perhaps famously when its most notable chapter, The Landau, was succeeded by the father-and-son Roux duo (who kept the name), then there was the short-lived Mimosa, and, going back, there was Ken Lo’s Memories of China, when the hotel operated under the Hilton brand. This is hardly surprising when you consider it is prime real estate; the Palladian rotunda that faces Portland Place, at the top of Regent Street, its neighbour none other than the BBC; it’s a position that any chef would wish to broadcast themselves to the capital.
Its latest chapter, the mouthful that is Sale e Pepe Mare, is a seafood-oriented offering bringing the Italian Riviera to the capital — and an extension of Sale e Pepe, the Knightsbridge institution that has been a fixture of London’s dining scene since 1974. It might just be the hotel’s most notable yet. Yes, even upstaging the mighty Michel.
Inside, there’s as much a sense of occasion as the outside spells grandeur. In an architectural move reminiscent of the great Frank Lloyd Wright’s ‘compress and release’, as you pass through a tunnel of sorts, you then emerge, quite literally, into the light. The evening sun cast through the substantial arched bay windows gives the room a coral glow that would make Ridley Scott gasp. There’s a naturally inviting atmosphere within that needs nothing more than the odd statement artwork and a prominent floral display. The room buzzes with movement, staff gliding purposefully between tables such that I fear we might get missed as we take our seats, but then, “Gentlemen, good evening…”.
This is Symon, our waiter, as affable as he is disarming. We feel right at home immediately. And then the excitement. “Tonight, we’re going to take you on a trip through the Italian Riviera…” he declares, “but first, perhaps a little aperitivo?” As a negroni man, I’m in seventh heaven seeing not just one listed, but an entire section of the cocktail menu given over to various regional turns on this Italian elbow-raiser; Florence, Trieste, Portofino, Messina, spun with various gins and vermouths to give each their character. At £75, I can’t bring myself to order the 1970s edition, made tableside with vintage components, but I content myself with a Portofino, in keeping with the venue’s theme, as Larman, naturally, selects his muddled Old Fashioned.
As we consider the menu, I find myself running a hand along the deep, upholstered arms of our chairs — the kind you sink into and quietly resolve never to leave — taking in the table settings, and catching a few clever, unobtrusive branding touches; the plates, the coasters, the olive oil. They are intent on creating a new experience here, aided summarily by the effusiveness of the staff. Symon is soon back, clearly aware that we’re grappling with our choices.
A panoply of antipasti — all of which sound spectacular — has Larman and I batting suggestions back and forth like ping-pong. Throughout, the ever-patient Symon nods, steers and gently arbitrates. Eventually, we start with the mains and work backwards. Larman insists on the steak, plenty for two on its own, we’re assured, particularly with a pasta course, of which Cacio e Pepe and veal penne are proffered.
On that basis, when it comes to starters, we defer to our compere. Symon suggests gamberi which Larman immediately eschews, until assured he won’t sully his fingers. And I’m persuaded on the burrata (is it just me that thinks it’s overrated?). In truth, any and all would have done us proud, and I concede the burrata is unlike any I’ve had before, floating in a moat of balsamic reduction and topped with truffle, and Larman steals the last prawn with the air of a man who wanted them all along. Alongside a glass of soft, just-so Gavi, we could be casting off from the pontoon in Portofino. “This is making me miss Villa Trevile…” he muses wistfully, reminiscing over his last trip to the Riviera.
When cacio e pepe was all the rage, I couldn’t see what the fuss was about, but having it made tableside, the spaghetti stirred into a barrel of pecorino, I realise what I missed. Italian cuisine, as with any, is infinitely superior when prepared with the conviction of its origins; three simple ingredients, as Symon reminded me, what more do you need? Well, penne con ragu di vitello, as it turned out. And another simple turn; ground veal, white wine, fresh penne. Inviolable.
At this point, you might have noticed that for somewhere that specialises in seafood, we’re going way inland, but the section of the menu, ‘Josper Grill’ had called to us. One can never assume the Italians don’t know how to do steak and, sure enough, if the wagyu macellaio was their football side, there’d have been no doubt as to their pedigree for this World Cup. Though I will pretend not to know what I’m talking about on that score. Dressed with their own take on sauces — salmoriglio and diavola, not least Larman’s customary Béarnaise — providing a fine accompaniment alongside a glass of well-chosen Valpolicella.
About which, at one point, staring at half-taken plates in front of us, and yearning for a top-up, a waitress appeared, “You need more wine, don’t you?” That, dear reader, is what service is about. “They are mind readers here, old boy,” Larman declared.
And that service can’t be understated, in one particular moment worthy of mention; before presenting the dessert menu, as the table is cleared it reveals a few, shall we say, enthusiastic spillages. With sleight of hand, Symon lays a pristine white napkin across the offending positions, and lays out the cutlery, deftly restoring our dignity.
And so to dessert. We are replete, but we can’t not take a scoop from the tiramisu tray, particularly having observed it circle the room. Well, dishes are contagious, are they not? I’ve had tiramisu made tableside, I’ve had it deconstructed, Mrs W even makes a fine turn of it, but there’s no substitute for that feeling of something fatto in casa, as it were. No frills, no fancy plating, just a generous spoonful placed into a bowl. Divine.
We emerge, eventually, into the Portland Place night, marginally less composed than we arrived — which is, of course, the correct outcome. Sale e Pepe Mare has the lot: a room that earns its address, food that makes a compelling case for simplicity done with total conviction, and service so attuned to the room it borders on telepathy. The Langham, it seems, has finally found its restaurant. One suspects it will be staying.
Sale e Pepe Mare, The Langham Hotel, 1C Portland Pl, London W1B 1JA. For more information, and for bookings, please visit www.saleepepe.co.uk. And ask for Symon.
Photos by Justin DeSouza
