‘Damn near perfect’: Upstairs at The George, London — restaurant review

Fitzrovia is justly famed for its unprepossessing Victorian boozers, the sort of places only Patrick Hamilton, misanthropic observer of London’s bleakest drinking holes, could describe with adequate misery. I’ve spent far too many hours in them. For as long as anyone could remember, The George on Great Portland Street was an agreeably depressing retreat for hacks and musicians awaiting work around the corner at Broadcasting House. The older cabbies used to call it “The Gluepot”, a name that apparently originated with London Philharmonic founder Sir Thomas Beecham because his musicians kept getting stuck there. It smelt, if I’m honest, of failure and finally closed its doors in 2016.

Fortunately it was rescued by a consortium that included JKS, the restaurant group behind Hoppers, Gymkhana and others. Not every project they touch turns immediately to gold, just most of them, and the restaurant Upstairs at The George, barring a couple of small issues, looks a dead cert. The bar (still, apparently, just The George) seems very much to the original design and now lacks only patina. Behind it is a long, narrow staircase leading up to an amazingly pretty dining room.

Devilled eggs may have been the first thing I ever wanted to cook. I found the recipe in the Blue Peter annual and still remember my mum’s look of complete confusion when I told her I wanted to take the yolks out of hard-boiled eggs, mash them up and pipe them back in again. “Why?” she asked, which did not encourage the aspirations of a nascent gourmet. I think I’ll bring her here next time to prove that espelette pepper can elevate yolk to a golden unction and that a chilled egg white is the only container pure enough to serve it in.

It’s unfair that crustacea, as a taxon, don’t get to compete in the Six Nations. These langoustines would make a killer front row

A dressed crab with “classic garnish” is offered as bait to the food nerd in your soul. This means that the white meat hides in the shell under separated stripes of puréed red meat, chopped, fresh fines herbes and finely grated egg, the white and yolk separated into mounds. As you knock the crab over on to the table with your elbow, these mounds explode into a cloud of tiny bouncing pellets that cover half the dining room and will be found in the turn-ups of your trousers three days later. Honestly, I have no idea how that happened. Something awry in my internal mechanisms, possibly some kind of seizure of delight. Once they’d helped me get it all back into the shell, it was superb.

It’s worth mentioning the wine list, which takes the fashion for British wines to its logical conclusion, with the whole front half featuring them by region. Initially, it’s amusing to ponder the benefits of Essex over Dorset Chardonnays, at least until the enthusiastic sommelier cracks some out and you realise they’re both outstanding. He eventually guided me towards a glass from Black Book, an urban winery in a London railway arch and, dear reader, I strongly recommend you let him do the same for you.

It’s rare in this business that a dish turns up at the table that actually makes your jaw drop. Scottish langoustine scampi and chips made mine unhinge like an anaconda swallowing a capybara. These things were hench. Half a dozen, arse-ends stripped, breadcrumbed and dangled in boiling fat, their massive torsos pink and gleaming. It’s unfair that crustacea, as a taxon, don’t get to compete in the Six Nations. These guys would make a killer front row. There was tartare sauce and crushed minted peas but as they came in ramekins I feel I should deplore them.

Usually, tournedos Rossini is heavy, glossy and brown, full of cultural significance but wildly out of date, like a pub piano. But chef James Knappet has reimagined it with the most unexpected delicacy. The filet mignon sits at the bottom, small, neatly trimmed and tender enough to cut with the side of your fork, then, in a shocking flash of iconoclasm, the crouton is placed on top, even smaller, but fried crisp in a stupendous amount of beef fat, making it stronger in flavour and richer than the meat. Finally, the foie is perched on top, angled like a jaunty hepatic “fascinator”, its surface crisply caramelised, its core molten. The Madeira sauce is unusually light while retaining a certain lip-glue richness. There’s just the one stack. If it was any smaller, more immaculate or costly, you’d wear it on your wrist.

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Problems? Yes, I’m afraid there were. The interior designer has cleverly created a seating plan that’s mainly corner booths and has then specified oval tables. It’s just perverse. I’ve spent a couple of hours I’ll never get back doing the geometry on this and I’m damned if I can make it work. No matter how you sit, addressing your dinner puts a niggling five-degree torsion in your lumbar vertebrae. It’s not enough to put you off your tea, but when you get up for a pee, you’ll find your calibration is off and you walk on a subtle diagonal. I don’t know, maybe that’s what caused my catastrophic dexterity issue with the crab.

Also, can we talk about the font? Though the pub has kept a glossy simulacrum of its original appearance and everything is designed to within an inch of its life, the logo is the word “George” in a 1960s comedy typeface that’s been driving me spare. It’s either from the cover of Dick Dale’s LP King of the Surf Guitar or the side of the Mystery Machine in Scooby-Doo. Why? Why? I’m a peculiarly sensitive soul. Is there something I’m not getting here or is it just there to mess with my head?

But, you know what, if I’m reduced to bitching about table geometry and typefaces, everything else Upstairs at The George must be damn near perfect.

Tim Hayward is the winner of best food writer at the Fortnum & Mason Food & Drink Awards 2022

Follow Tim on Twitter @TimHayward and email him at [email protected]

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