Sheila Hancock: ‘When I dine at Wiltons, I am sublimely happy’

It is an ideal restaurant for an annual Christmas treat for my three sons-in-law, modern men who revel in its old-fashioned gentility. So, approaching his coming of age at 18, I decided it was time to initiate my grandson Louis. The secret of its success is home cooking better than any home can achieve, not Michelin-starred clever stuff. Rumour has it they were offered two Michelin stars but politely declined being judged by people that make tyres. I hope that is true.

We each ordered a starter of langoustines, then panicked that they might require peeling. When they arrived shell-less, pink and curled, we were relieved. The crustaceans were slightly crunchy, tasting of the sea, ready to dip in a pot of mayonnaise that was smooth and creamy with a mere hint of lemon, garlic and some other secret herbs. Louis was rendered speechless.

It is a bit male-orientated. There are suggested rules of dress for men, but for women there are none, hopefully because they think we know how to behave, or maybe they trust that our menfolk will keep us in order. I haven’t spotted shorts, hooded tops, open-toed sandals or short-sleeved shirts. These last two puzzle me: I have never found men’s toes or forearms offensive. If any lapse of the dress code should occur, it would be handled at Wiltons with the utmost tact. Unlike in the 1960s, when I first earned a bit of money, and took my dad to the then-very-grand Caprice restaurant, not knowing that men had to wear ties. The humiliation of my dad, in his ancient best suit, publicly donning a borrowed tie, is a painful memory. “I’ve let you down, Sheil.”

We toyed with ordering the seafood platter for mains: whole native lobster, dressed crab, obsiblue prawns, oysters, mussels, whelks, but the practicalities daunted us, as did the prospect of daring to ask for doggy bags.

Fine fresh fish can be prepared however you wish. So what did we choose as our main course? Meat. They should never have shown us the exquisite silver trolley and promised us roast pork from Blythburgh (wherever that is, with its superior pigs), dished up with roast potatoes, apple compote and crackling. Who could resist the ceremonial sweeping back of the ornate lid, and the superb carving performed by the waiter, with utensils held on a tray by a motionless minion by his side? He served us each three tender slices soaked in rich gravy. I slipped two of mine on to Louis’s plate, who ecstatically downed them.

I decided we should have a glass of champagne and with considerable lack of style, requested “not one of your expensive ones” from the woman sommelier. She didn’t blink while describing one she thought we might like, appropriately light and young. Nor did she show any disdain when I asked if it should be red or white with pork, demonstrating to Louis how wine can enhance the flavour of food, not just be guzzled at parties.

We dithered over the selection of puddings: bread and butter, trifle, summer pudding. We wanted them all. Eventually, the waiter appeared with apple crumble and custard, and rhubarb soufflé and ice-cream, placed in the middle of the table with two spoons. Both fruit-fresh and slightly acidic (nothing at Wiltons is oversweet).

By the end of the meal, I had another convert to the mystique of Wiltons in Louis. I suspect he might save up his pennies for one of the cheaper set menus, and later work hard to become prime minister so he can become a regular. The other women in my family are growing a little tired of the boys going on about Wiltons. I think I may have to take my three daughters and four granddaughters soon. They’re usually well-behaved, so should fit in well.

You may wonder why this working-class girl is so obsessed with the upper classes. The truth is I am wildly jealous. I admire the dignity of the Wiltons regulars. I want to be like them: an aristocrat in a tweed skirt, living in a crumbling, beautiful castle occasionally coming into town to get my nails done. I would visit that hairdresser near Berkeley Square that does one’s hair to enhance one’s tiara, and then have lunch with my husband or father at Wiltons. Never mind all that working-class, left-wing-rage rubbish.

The restaurant, too, has working-class roots. It originated in 1742 as an oyster barrow in the nearby hay market. Today, it is wildly expensive, but if you can beg, borrow or yes, steal the money, I’m certain you will think it well spent while you eat your porridge in the Scrubs.

Wiltons, 55 Jermyn Street, London SW1Y 6LX (020 7629 9955; wiltons.co.uk). Two-course set menu from £47.95 Starters from £16 Mains from £36 Champagne from £99

Photographs by Sophia Evans