Industry Notes: Considering St. John

A clean, well-lighted place to eat

The gorgeous remnants of a long lunch at St. John Marylebone

Have you been to St. John?

It is a London institution with countless restaurants in its wake - across London and well beyond her fair shores. It is perhaps my favorite restaurant in London (and on this I am not alone) and certainly one of the finest in the world. As a restaurant it sits squarely in the town center of British food: ingredient driven, free of trickery, pure and satisfying.

St. John is a simple place, free of affectation and unburdened by the concerns that seem to plague me as a restaurant operator. My entire career has been a consideration of what people want and how I can give it to them. My projects are littered with the detritus of good ideas shelved because they may not have had enough commercial appeal. I’m so enamored with St. John because there seem to be simply no considerations beyond what would delight the proprietors. If the customers come along for the ride (and they have), that is icing on the cake.

I first visited St. John over 15 years ago, and have been returning regularly in the years since. I’ve summered in England, was engaged to be married in England, married in England, honeymooned in England, and have returned every summer since. Save for a few years break around COVID, it has been a North Star. My family and I arrived only yesterday for another dance with the Big Smoke. And on each and every visit, I’ve darkened the doors of St. John.

Over the years it’s grown from its single original location to several, along with a bakery and a bustling wine concern. It is still personal, unique, and simple in mission. There was once a St. John hotel, and I am pained to have missed it, as it was short-lived and ill fated.

Fergus Henderson and Trevor Gulliver.

The dining rooms all hew to strict and simple formula: Square tables, draped in clean white cloths and two simple wineglasses; walls free of adornment, save for white shaker pegs for hanging a coat or a gentleman’s hat; a long zinc bar; stainless steel service stations.

In the years I’ve been visiting the only discernible frill is the pig logo atop the menus. The decor could best be described as “absence of decor.” The place looks like an abattoir, perhaps owing to the fact that the original location was a smoke-house for bacon. It is a strong aesthetic, self-assured and mighty in its restraint.

There is no music, no distraction from the eating and drinking to be done. The lights are not bright, but they are certainly not dim by todays standards.

At St. John there is no concept other than “British restaurant.”

There is something very human about this place. The menus do not patronize the diner. They assume a level of intelligence at the table, and they recognize that a conversation can be had if something is unfamiliar.

Over the years I’ve learned that Dexter is a breed of beef, Middle White a type of pig. So when I see a menu that reads Cold Roast Dexter, Celeriac and Pickled Walnut or Roast Middle White, Carrots and Aioli, I understand what I’m in for. I know this because I’ve engaged in conversation with the staff, asked questions, inhabited the world of Fergus Henderson for a moment.

These kinds of simple places offer simple pleasures - the promise of good food and a decent conversation. It is not a revolutionary idea, but one I am finding more difficult to find. It brings to mind Hemingway’s “A Clean, Well-Lighted Place,” where a simple place can provide a little order, some warmth, and some shelter in our weird and wild world.

Here’s to that.