The Britannia

I sailed into Richmond once – without doubt the only way to arrive – the early-morning glint off the Thames turning the riverside into a series of Venetian palaces, noble Dodges’ dwellings blanched white by the mist-filtered sunlight. All other modes of arrival are more prosaic: your choice of District Line ennui or A316 roundabout hell. When you do moor up, you’d be forgiven for feeling a little underwhelmed by the choice of eateries. An awful lot of chain-arama needs picking through to find anything truly interesting. But there is genuine sparkle here: Petersham Nurseries (no longer Skye Gyngell-ified but still good); Chez Lindsay’s reassuringly gallic fayre; the lovely Bingham (for when the Christmas bonus drops); even the Germans down by the water (Stein’s) for fair-weather beer ‘n wurst.

You don’t go to Richmond for value, innovation or pizazz but you should, however, go for The Britannia. Its pubby charms are to be found in one of the cramped, tourist-jostled alleys off the Green. Falling through the door, you’re met immediately by stairs to a first-floor dining room, leading inevitably to a traffic jam and a bit of good-natured tangoing with the hosts. They’re super-friendly, though, so cloak checking is done with the minimum of fuss/Argentine elbowing. A lovely oak bar presides downstairs where white-linened tables are populated by a mix of understated old money, spryer types and foodie-folk. What you don’t get, mercifully, are the hoards of day-trippers that drown out the rest of Richmond’s sedate hum. Calm here, soporific even; somewhere I’d happily move into, having just the right ambience of comfy, spaniel-basket warmth.

A glass of Crémant de Bourgogne from the excellent, Bordeaux-'n-Burgundy-heavy wine list started things off. Being a Sunday and lunchtime, we figured Sunday lunch was in order. Lovely twice-cooked herb soufflés (a-top a winning velouté) scudded by like cheese-encrusted clouds and were followed by roast meats of distinction. I went for chicken. Which I never do. I was intrigued. All was present and correct: good bread saucery/sorcery, forcemeat and a stuffed leg to go with perfectly cooked and generously portioned breast meat. Goodly gravy, too, and the best roast potatoes (duck-fat basted and shattering) I’ve eaten from a commercial kitchen. The roast pork shoulder and sirloin of beef looked excellent, too, as I gawked none too politely at other tables.

We went with their wine suggestion: a very good Steinmetz Riesling. Service was slick and bonhomous. I’ll pass over the grave(y) sin of serving a Yorkshire pudding with anything other than beef. It’s personal peccadillo I suppose, besides it didn’t prevent me from scoffing the darn thing.

Tasty and snuggly. Recommended!