David Ellis reviews Rondo: ‘Modern British’ is so often boring, but there’s comfort in these classics

In truth, I wasn’t sure I wanted to go here. I’d heard good things about the Cheltenham days of Japanese Kibou, and was curious about its cherry-blossomed opening in Battersea. Who wouldn’t want a taste of a Tokyo drinking den? But a mild calamity — sort of my stock-in-trade — means crossed wires and a lost booking. And so it was to Rondo.

It wasn’t the story putting me off. That’s rather good: 17 years ago, Chris Gillard met Will Lander at St John, when Lander was putting in shifts behind the bar and Gillard ruled the kitchen. Lander, to put it lightly, is no longer a barman, having found enormous success with Portland, Clipstone and Farringdon’s beloved Quality Chop House. Gillard, meanwhile, picked up a Michelin star at St John, and followed it with stints in the adored Quo Vadis and Andrew Edmunds. Busy men — a lot to pack into a catch-up, you imagine. One of those lunches that finishes about 1am.

So the story sounded fine, but the food? “Modern British cooking”? That soporific snapshot summing up every cookbook with a beard on the cover? I’ll save the rillettes for the weddings I’d rather not be at, thanks.

But still, Rondo is in the likeable Hoxton hotel, which unfortunately happens to be in Holborn. Having taken my coolest friend as sort of a joke — “Do you fancy joining a review?” / “Yes mate, where?” / “Holborn” / “...is it too late to say no?” — we wander in just before 9pm and stay there late. Odd that, just a week later, the Government should declare this dangerous hedonism. We sat down thoroughly sanitised to a menu found through an app, greeted by staff still friendly through a mask.

Being wrong is one of life’s singular pleasures: I was dim not to fancy this place. Rondo serves a roll call of finely tuned British cooking, presented cleanly, mostly rich and delicious. Crispy pig cheek came on sweated shallots, their sweetness lifting the predictable porky heaviness; roast cauliflower, tops browned, lay under collapsed columns of chicory. Something you’d aspire to at home, but a reminder kitchens need professionals. The night’s star, lemon sole, was off the grill and into a pond of butter, with a bright briny flavour coming from half a jar of capers. All this was demolished with a grin, or, at least in the case of the pickles, an awkward puckering.

The singular mishap was roast chicken. “What’s that stuff that’s black and sticky?” my friend asked, screwing his face up. “Tar?” I suggest, a glass in. “Liquorice, you moron. Tastes of that.” Odd a bird usually defamed as dull should taste this way.

It’s still a bit, well, Holborn. Inside, it’s all dark wooden chairs, dark wooden tables, dark wooden floor, dark wooden wine shelf. In these difficult times, they’ve done their bit for the oak trade.

Still, the shared tarte tatin, rightly sweet, explains the whole appeal: sometimes, comfort is everything.

Astonishingly fine cooking from Daniel Humm, the man “making it nice”.

Claridge’s, Brook Street, W1K, claridges.co.uk

Palatial perfection with the best service in town.

The Ritz, 150 Piccadilly, W1J, theritzlondon.com

Pies reimagined as high art.

Rosewood London, 252 High Holborn, WC1V, rosewoodhotels.com

Laap-spiced sprats and a fiercely spiced dry curry of wood pigeon at Thai-inspired grill Kiln.

Vespers — where gin and vodka are icily mixed — tend to slash sobriety to pieces. Not at Harry’s Dolce Vita, where O’ndina gin smooths the sharp edges. Perfect with burrata.

Snails bob in garlic butter at old favourite Café Boheme. Afterwards, we stay up late while we still can at new wine bar, the Black Book in Frith Street Soho.

On a heaving Saturday night, a lucky walk-in at L’Antica Pizzeria da Michele, before joyous Ronnie Scott’s on opening night, where we fondly recall a friend once nodding off into his martini.

Silly, but I’m proud of crisp-skinned roast chicken, slathered in mustard and lemon. A welcome break in a day-long flat clean driven by fear of my girlfriend’s return from Italy.