At no point during the many hours I’ve spent pounding the streets of Central London in search of a pitstop to funnel food into the kids, has The Ritz leapt out as an obvious choice. Because let’s face it, the idea of formal dining with young children is horrific. So when it was suggested that we might like to review the restaurant as a family – because it turns out both the dining room and hotel at 150 Piccadilly have for years operated “a positively child-friendly policy” – I was, in turn, scared and intrigued.

Fast-forward to 12.30pm on a drizzly Saturday. It comes as some surprise to my husband and I as we tramp past reception, hair stuck to our cheeks – three-year-old and baby in tow – that a strict jacket-and-tie policy applies at both lunch and dinner sittings. The news is delivered, guillotine-like, by a lady with a clipboard who neatly intercepts us at reception. “Really?” we mumble, kicking our heels together like school-children caught chuffing fags by a particularly unforgiving teacher. Though in hindsight, WHAT HAD WE BEEN THINKING?

The only thing I can think to blame is the brain-annihilating fatigue that comes with a 10-month-old insomniac, but even this is a poor excuse. This is The Ritz, a place where butlers doff their hats and people eat triangular sandwiches from tiered plates – I’m still not sure why we thought we could rock up in our riff-raff threads and expect to be let in. Although, in our defence, eating out in London has changed significantly since this restaurant’s doors were first opened in 1906, under the keen eye of Auguste Escoffier.

Today, some of the world’s greatest culinary draws stand a stone’s throw of this world-renowned spot next to Green Park – and few still measure the cut of their clientele’s jib by quite such anachronistic standards. For a generation of Londoners, eating out and eating well has become the norm; so commonplace that we’ve forgotten what it is to get properly suited and booted for the occasion.

Fortunately, it transpires (once we’ve grovelled our way through the double doors)that we aren’t the first customers to have underestimated the dress-code. For morons like us there is a box of spare clothes, slightly fancier than the one at our daughter’s nursery. Once my husband has picked out an appropriate outfit, which gives him the look of a dodgy Spanish waiter, we are led into the exquisitely beautiful dining room where I am instantly struck by a sense of impending doom. Delicate crockery, endless wine glasses, conversation kept to a polite whisper around us: What had we been thinking?

Within two minutes, and a glass of perfectly-chilled Sauvignon Blanc down, however, I start to feel more at ease. The waiting staff, if slightly bemused by our presence, are remarkably obliging of our needs and those of our children (which are considerable). There are, extraordinarily, no raised eyebrows or disappointed tuts as soggy bread-crusts are lobbed across the perfectly-laid table. High-chairs are erected and a children’s menu produced with a three-course option (£30) including chilled melon with raspberry and grenadine or tomato mozzarella salad; tagliatelle with bolognese sauce or breadcrumbed chicken breast with french fries; followed by knickerbockerglory or banana split. Each serving is so generous in size that for the first time in her life my preternaturally ravenous daughter cannot quite polish her’s off.

Our grown-up three-course meal (£49 a head) includes smoked duck with duck liver, which is tender and tasty, and John Dorey with broad beans, which is lovely and light – rounded off with a delightful chocolate souffle with hazelnut ice cream. Copious amounts of wine (not included in the price) is drunk. Just as I start to think everything is going so swimmingly, we realise that neither of us has retrieved the baby’s bottle from our buggy, which the doorman relieved us at the door and stowed away downstairs for the duration of our meal. Unusually and seemingly without a hint of resentment, our waiter tracks it down to retrieve the bottle.

That, I ponder, knocking back my third glass of dessert wine, is what you pay for. Ignoring the epic ceiling frescoes, gilded neoclassical statues and none-too-shabby garland chandelier, it is the ability of the staff to make you feel like no request is too much, that sets the Ritz apart from other, possibly cooler, establishments. Of course, all this is not to say that you won’t be hated by fellow diners, but you can’t have everything.

The Ritz London
, 150 Piccadilly,
London
W1J 9BR; theritzlondon.com

Food 4
Service 5
Value 3
Kid rating 3
Adult rating 4