Sussex Review: What Going Out is all About
Spoiler alert: it's not just the food
Sussex’s confirmation email carried the words that put fear into the heart of every diner: leave by 7:30.
It was now 6:15. I was hotfooting from the GB News studio, where I’d sipped green tea, promoted my charity fundraiser, and bonded with the presenter over our shared love of hot yoga - your average culture warrior stuff. The only problem was they’d had me 30 minutes later than planned.
In a blind panic, I’d sent my order through the WhatsApp group - we’d just have time to stuff three courses down. As I marched through Soho Square, a message flashed up: “standing outside”. Mixed feelings: I wasn’t the only one running late, but two courses might have to do.
Although there was a slight glitch. My pal was nowhere to be seen. A breathless phone call revealed he was at the Duke of Sussex, 20 minutes away in Waterloo. What a bunch of clowns we are.
If the staff at Sussex had stuck to their policy, we wouldn’t have had any dinner at all. For this dear friend went to the wrong place not once, but twice. Eventually reaching us an hour later after a detour to the SUSSEX ARMS in Paddington. Proof, if you needed it, that WhatsApp’s live location feature is as much use as a sommelier with a blocked nose.
Thankfully, our charming waiter Zoltan made sure we had an absolutely rip-roaring time while we waited. The Duke of Sussex was his local pub, he could very much understand why someone would want to call in for a drink there first; he agreed that maps are tricky to follow on our phones, this could have happened to Sir Ranulph Fiennes himself. He kept the drinks coming and the mood light.
When we eventually had it, the food was great - and all surprise, surprise sourced from on or around the owner’s farm in Sussex. The beetroot carpaccio and trout starters were light and uplifting, perfect food for a day where we were drinking out on the streets until after dark. My lamb rump was perfectly pink, and matched by a dreamily buttery celeriac purée and a punchy jus. A zesty lemon sorbet was the perfect pick me up before heading into Soho.
Pleasurable as this all was, it was an irrelevance. If Zoltan had presented me with a Big Mac, I’d have acted like it was Koffmann’s pig’s trotter. This is what good hospitality is about: being welcomed, being fed, and having a great time whilst you’re doing it.
Years of eating out with my father - once a Michelin-starred chef - made me believe it was all about food. He’d prod and poke every dish, obsessing over how it was cooked, what gadgets had created the magic. No matter how perfect a dish was, he always wondered how it could have been better - he’d even peer under the plates to see who made them. RAK was his favourite brand, and I catch myself doing it too.
This obsessiveness makes a great chef, but it doesn’t make a great dining companion. It took me a long time - and a lot of pissed off friends - to learn that. Arthur will you stop complaining about the food was a constant refrain. Guys, I’ve got the message.
It’s more fun to enjoy what you can and not worry about what you don’t. But that only works if the service is good, if someone like Zoltan is looking after you properly. Only culinary obsessives, fusspots of the highest order, return to restaurants with red hot food and chilly service.
Sussex wasn’t perfect and I don’t care. I’ll go back to see Zoltan and you should too.