‘One of my life’s greatest tragedies is to have already read Pickwick Papers – I can’t go back and read it for the first time.‘ – Fernando Pessoa

It’s probably relatively unusual to be reminded of a quote from the introduction to a Penguin Classic during lunch, but that’s the kind of ponce you’re dealing with here. It sprang to mind specifically because, as another couple were ushered into the understated elegance of English’s main dining room, I found myself experiencing a pang of jealousy that they were yet to start their meal, while I was already more than halfway through mine. It is hard to think of a better compliment to a restaurant, but then, for my money, it is hard to think of a better restaurant than English’s.

I first came here over ten years ago with my then girlfriend, now wife, who will be suitably annoyed reading this that she was at home with our children while I took myself out for my very own Christmas Carol in Brighton. If memory serves, back then we were also joined by fellow comedian Nick Page and his then girlfriend, now wife, and Craig Murray, who has clearly made so much money from advertising Plusnet he has obviously bought Yorkshire and retired there to enjoy its stupendous broadband coverage. I meant to write about it then, but never got round to it. I also, for reasons that completely escape me, failed to return until today. It was very much worth the wait.

Brighton has that happy feeling of a last Saturday before Christmas as everyone bustles around the Lanes picking up those final presents, and it’s hard to think of a better place for finding that bespoke thing you never even knew you wanted, unless it is a children’s art apron which I then went on to fail to locate in about seven different shops. English’s on the other hand, is an absolute oasis of calm, and despite a lack of booking I was ushered very obligingly to a linen laid table with a leather banquette, (later described by a fellow diner as ‘my throne’) and handed the menu, which was a very beautiful thing.

Having partaken of a little of Brighton’s nightlife last night with my dear friend Rich Wilson, who is expertly MCing our Christmas gigs this weekend, I didn’t really fancy any alcohol, so a large bottle of sparkling water was immediately fetched. In my opinion, a hangover is as good a time to have oysters as any, so I ordered three rock and three native. Served on ice, I approached them in a manner so efficient, it made me wish I could deal with my personal admin with equal aplomb. (So does my wife.) First, a healthy squeeze of lemon on each of them, then one native, one rock. Delicious. Then two more, this time with shallot vinaigrette. Outstanding. And finally the last two with tabasco. Sublime. So good were they that a lady at a neighbouring table saw my face and asked if I was enjoying myself, and she and her husband and I fell into that easy conversation which is the hallmark of exceptional restaurants. We didn’t even get each other’s names, but I’d like to take this opportunity to wish them both a very happy 27th wedding anniversary. And yes, she was the one who said I looked like I was sitting on a throne.

Speaking of royalty, I had asked my very helpful and knowledgeable waitress Lorraine which of the market fish of the day she would opt for and she suggested the halibut. She was absolutely right. An utterly magnificent slab of the king of the sea arrived on a bed of wilted spinach, cooked to crisp skinned perfection. If I’m absolutely honest, I could probably have done without the prawn mousselines – not in any sense unpleasant, just by their very nature less than the sum of their parts (to my mind.) But I ate all three of them very happily slathered in a beautiful lemon and caper butter emulsion and accompanied by some pleasingly chunky chips. So good was the fish in fact, that I decided it did need a glass of wine, and a perfectly dry Petit Chablis pretty much crowned the entire experience. After all, I had by now decided that this was very much my own personal Christmas Party. 

I hadn’t planned on having pudding, but I was enjoying myself so much by this stage I decided it would be silly not to. Having said that, nothing really leapt out at me, until I asked another waitress (Lorraine had gone on a break having recommended three shops that it turns out were completely out of children’s aprons,) about the caramelised pineapple. I had only got through the first three syllables of ‘caramelised’ when she interrupted me to say “It’s SO good” and that was that. It was too. A perfectly creamy cinnamon ice cream sat atop a big hunk of pineapple, with a few little cubes of whisky jelly and some toasted coconut to give it a little poke.

I finished with what pretended to be an Americano, but if anything was more pokey than the whisky (in a good way,) and a bill for £97, including exemplary service. I am fully aware that is not the cheapest of lunch options available to the solo traveller, but frankly, it felt like a snip. A lot of places charge £50 a head for Christmas Parties, but I can guarantee you I had at least twice as good a time on my own as plenty of audience members over the festive period.

Every comedian has a healthy dread of December, as it is a time which often brings out the worst in the English. But, to paraphrase Mr Dickens, if you manage to fit in a lunch at English’s, it will also be the best of times. 

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Dec 2024