‘The buzzing glitterati swarm around this honey po

A recap for those of you who don’t keep up with the intricate machinations of the London restaurant scene. Jeremy King and Chris Corbin bought the famous 1940s Le Caprice on Mayfair’s Arlington Street and relaunched it in 1981, then went on to create a number of fabled restaurants including The Ivy, J Sheekey and The Wolseley. Over time, bits of the restaurant group were sold off, for example to Richard Caring (who now owns the Ivy brand and the Caprice name) and to Thai hospitality giant Minor, which invested in The Wolseley with the idea to posh-chain it around the place (like Caring did with The Ivy). King came to the view that he didn’t want horrid little replicas of his beloved Wolseley around the world so had a nasty fight and quit.

Then, after Caring closed Le Caprice, King snapped it up, but Caring (who doubtless wants little Caprices everywhere) said no to him using the name, so King opened Arlington on the site and stuck two fingers up at stubborn Caring by letting everyone know that it was #notlecaprice. Because, lol, of course it is: the art deco interior is restored, there are David Bailey black and white celeb prints on the walls, and it has a similar menu ethos. Thus it follows that when Caring opens his first Caprice – rebooted, as it’s rumoured, in London’s Chancery Rosewood hotel next year, or perhaps in an over-chilled Dubai shopping mall – we’ll all know it’s #notreallylecaprice.

And in opening Arlington, King creates what he does best: buzz. The buzzing bees of glitterati swarm round his honey pot – be they media tycoons, editors, actors… – they smooch and hug and nod and wave and relish being there, and you need to understand this when it comes to the food.

The latter is an adjunct, a part of the occasion, not designed to get in the way (no preening chefs, dish provenance genius/culinary/wizardry explanations from staff ). Which is why our pair of offkilter puds are mere asides, although it’s my job to dwell on them briefly (as it is to mention that King has already hit a large bump in the road, having lost maître d’ Jesus Adorno just weeks after the opening). The treacle tart was a thick gingery, citrussy wedge, not the breadcrumbtextured beauty it should be, and my guest, who has a house in New Zealand, insists that the hokey pokey coupe is, in fact, hocus pocus. The true NZ version is nothing more than vanilla ice cream, pimped up with nuggets of honeycomb, while at Arlington it comes covered in chocolate sauce, albeit delightfully, simply, delicious.

As for the main menu it’s uncomplicated brasserie food – soups and salads, pies, steaks, calf ’s liver, veal chop, fish and chips – all beautifully cooked and neatly presented and, as I say, with that godsend of not a single word of explanation.

My pal, Andrew, had seared scallops, which were tender, very pretty in their shells and with just the right hint of chilli, while I had a classic, creamy but not-too-rich dressed crab. Andrew’s fishcake had a good crunchy surround, with fleshy sweet fish and a generous pour of sorrel sauce. The finest Italian trattoria would applaud my chicken Milanese: the tenderest chicken in a light batter with a simple rocket and Parmesan salad and the summery zing of a squeeze of lemon.

It was all a graceful conduit to good conversation with no pointless interruptions, only the ones you want: a pal passing the table and stopping to say hi; a brief chat with Mr King himself.

We’re piling in to share in the magic of the return of a great institution. Grab a table so you can reply to your friends: ‘Yes of course I’ve been to Arlington, darling, and I’m back tomorrow for dinner.’

It’s uncomplicated brasserie food… The finest Italian trattoria would applaud my chicken Milanese