The Wolseley is already a legend in its own lunchtime. Which is pretty impressive for an establishment that hasn't been open for lunch - or for anything at all - for more than five minutes. This restaurant was famous before it was born, like Wills or Brooklyn or Rocco Ritchie. And for precisely the same reason: its esteemed parentage. The Wolseley, you see, is the latest effort from the restaurant world's most dynamic duo, the Batman and Robin of dining, Jeremy King and Chris Corbin.
If you haven't heard of them, you haven't been to The Ivy. In which case, you might as well stop reading now and turn to the recipe pages. Corbin and King just happen to be the chief alchemists on the London restaurant scene, the men behind the re-launch and subsequent supernova status of Le Caprice, The Ivy and J. Sheekey. The pair originated the star-spotting, pap-shooting celebrity diner, where the tables had waiting lists and the punters had Baftas. Rumour has it that in its heyday The Ivy received 1,000 calls for reservations every day - and it was all achieved with the application of something rather unfashionable in these days of hard-sell, big-name branding: a discreet, sophisticated elegance.
And now, they've done it again. The Wolseley - located plum in the centre of Piccadilly, between Fortnum & Mason and the Ritz - opened softly; a phone call here, a tip-of-the-wink there, a nudge in the right direction. Within nanoseconds, it was packed with droppable names. I had barely walked through the door when I fell over Damien Hirst. En route to the loo, I nearly stubbed my toe on what turned out to be Sir Terence Conran, seated centre stage and dressed as one of his shabby chic sofas. There was a line-up of Late Review personalities along one wall, among them several very well-known playwrights whose names remain forever on the tip of your tongue. In one sweeping glance you can divine that this will be the new hang-out for Saatchis, Lawsons and Redgraves. Ruthie Rogers, herself the owner of no mean restaurant, was in to celebrate her wedding anniversary on Day One, when, strictly speaking, the place was shut.
As anyone with half an ounce of gastro-chic will tell you, the very best time to eat at a restaurant is before it has opened. It's the equivalent of wearing next season's Prada, or reading Garcia Marquez in the original Spanish. In a delicious sort of quantum puzzle, The Wolseley was both open and shut when I visited on Day Four. I could tell that I inhabited this pre-launch no-man's land because Jeremy King was not entirely happy with his tzimmes. Now I realise that to the untrained ear, these sound like something best kept between you and your doctor, but it transpires that tzimmes are honey-glazed carrots of middle-European origin. And J.K. wasn't totally tickety-boo with them, so they were off until they had attained perfection - in the company of the sole goujons which had also failed to cut the mustard.
Still, the rest of the package is pretty near perfect. Not in that stuffy, puffed-up, Michelin-starred sort of way, when you notice the precise angle of the cutlery. But in a 'really want to go there' sort of way. The Droppables will come for the sprinkling of Tinkerbell dust which Corbin and King somehow apply to all their projects. They'll come for the environment - a Cunard version of Grand Central Station, with great dollops of fin de siècle Viennese elegance thrown in. (It's hardly a surprise to discover that David Collins designed the place; he is, as my grandma would have said, prezzemolo, which is Italian for parsley, as in he 'springs up absolutely everywhere').
They'll come for the not-too-fancy, not-too-dear food too - chopped liver being in pole position on the menu, closely followed by escargot, Wiener schnitzel, bratwurst and Breton hot dogs. Pommes frîtes are served in darling silver cups; coffee comes, Austrian style, with a shot glass of cold water to cleanse the palate. The whole experience makes you yearn to wear white gloves and a cloche hat, and to visit at tea-time for a tall glass of ice-cream.
With Corbin, King and Collins - together with Chris Galvin (late of The Orrery) in the kitchen, and Sean McDermott (whom Madonna calls Mr Pickwick on account of his beadle's hat and woollen greatcoat) on the door - it's hard to see how The Wolseley could fail. Even so, the place has been subject to the pre-emptive strike of the critic before it has had a chance to iron out the creases in its napkins. Fortunately, The Wolseley is at a clear advantage here because critics (snobs one and all) are predisposed to love anything this team touches. You'd be a twit to knock it, because within an instant of opening it has become the only table in town. Well, my little tzimmes, need I say more?
· The Wolseley, 16 Piccadilly, London W1
