5 /5 Helga: Mid-menu, a course of roasted Jerusalem artichoke with hazelnut and aged Comté was so intensely savoury I actually laughed out loud. The mains (halibut with mussel broth, then Anjou pigeon with cherry and offal ragù) were flawless, but it’s the quieter moments that will stay with me: a single leaf of grilled lettuce hiding a warm oyster, or the pre-dessert of frozen pine-needle granita that tasted like walking through a snow-covered forest at dawn.
Service, led by Elena on the floor, is the rare kind that feels like an old friend who happens to know exactly when you want another glass of wine and when you’d rather be left alone with the plate in front of you. The wine pairings (£140) are generous, intelligent and occasionally surprising (a 12-year-old Oloroso with the pigeon was pure genius).
We finished with warm madeleine and a small glass of 1976 Madeira just because it was Tuesday. The bill arrived without ceremony, and for once I didn’t flinch.
Corelli’s isn’t trying to shock or reinvent; it’s doing something far more difficult: cooking at the very highest level while making you feel completely at ease. London has louder, flashier, more “important” restaurants. Few leave you happier.
Book well ahead. Cancel anything else if you have to. Just go.
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