Saint Georges Hotel, perched near the iconic All Souls Church, was once a favorite haunt for me. It was a place of old-world charm, a high-rise motel reminiscent of those early soap operas, where BBC types gathered, their eyes fixed more on each other than the city’s sprawling view. Restaurants came and went, each hoping to capture a piece of London’s culinary scene. One, The Heights, promised breathtaking views, but for a true birds-eye perspective, Hilton Park Lane remained the undisputed king.
A Garden Oasis with an Unsettled Vibe
On a brilliant day, the blinds had to be drawn to temper the sun’s dazzling rays as I stepped into the Saint Georges Hotel’s restaurant. The atmosphere was oddly inviting, with nesting boxes, garden trinkets, and tired-looking greenery creating a whimsical, almost chaotic ambiance. The waiting staff, though amiable, seemed a bit lost in the game, their enthusiasm a touch unpolished. After placing our order, a list of dishes designed for sharing, our waiter confidently announced the arrival of our food, only to trail off mid-sentence. “When it suits them,” was the unspoken, modern-day reality. We waited patiently for our drinks, watching them being prepared at the bar, which dominated the center of the dining space.
Drinks that Burn and Dishes that Disappoint
My companion chose the Los Muertos, a £17 cocktail from the Cócteles de Agave section. This pinky-grey, murky concoction, reminiscent of childhood perfume made from rose petals and water, arrived adorned with flowers and a sugar skull. It was set alight, a theatrical touch that couldn’t mask the drink’s overwhelming sweetness. It was promptly returned. “It looks great for Instagram at night,” my companion said wistfully, as he removed the flaming skull. He opted for a martini, while I went off-piste with a pisco sour.
The pico de gallo arrived unsolicited, a dish we were delicately warned about due to its potential chili heat. Alas, it was bland, prompting us to request salt and pepper, which we also used on the underwhelming roasted garlic avocado purée spread on flatbread. It was a far cry from the culinary delights we had hoped for, reminding my friend of the fare at a Slug & Lettuce. The unfortunate comparison hung in the air. From the Salads section, the el caesar promised a vegan twist on the classic, featuring a signature vegan caesar dressing. However, the absence of anchovies, or even Worcestershire sauce, seemed a blatant misstep for a dish so inextricably linked to these ingredients. Unsurprisingly, there was a separate vegan menu.
Mexican Dreams, German Reality
The Fajita bowl, priced at £23, was our main course choice. We chose the carne asada, slices of steak drizzled with a reddish sauce, perhaps the vegan chipotle crema mentioned on the menu. The meat sat sadly beside a heap of dull, rather than glossy, black beans, rice, and guacamole. Any true Mexican flavor seemed lost in translation. The décor was described as restaurant as Airbnb, a poignant commentary on its lack of authenticity. During an evening visit, hoping to understand the place better, my well-traveled Indian journalist companion declared it had the air of a chain restaurant in an airport’s departure lounge. We tried the calamari frito, supposedly made with wild-caught calamari. The excitement of the chase was lost in the greasy darkness of the deep-fried squid, which we left largely untouched.
Tacos, Chicharrones, and German Flair
The heart of the restaurant, however, lay in its takeaway shop with a few stools. Here, Walter Opitz, a German-Mexican enthusiast, orchestrated the proceedings, using roasting spits, a legacy from the premises’ former life as a kebab shop. The chicharrones, deep-fried pork skin, arrived first, accompanied by vibrant salsas. We followed with the tacos carnitas and suadero, pork and beef respectively. The cornflour shells, crispy and flavorful, cradled the meat, seasoned with onion and coriander, their flavors enhanced by the array of sauces lining the serving shelf.
A Culinary Bargain
The tacos were priced at £4.50 for two, a stark contrast to Madera’s £13 tacos. While Madera’s tacos may be more expensive, the Saint Georges Hotel’s tacos were several times more satisfying. Weekends, apparently, are busy, with Sundays offering a special of the day that I suspect is the Nahuatl equivalent of “worth the detour.” Whether it’s worth the detour or not, this London landmark, with its quirky charm and mix of cuisines, remains a curious, albeit slightly unsettling, experience.
