Standing in the teeny tiny, Netflix-Christmas-film-coded courtyard outside Cloth Cornhill, I feel sad. This opening drills the final nail in the coffin of the former Simpsons Tavern, the capital’s oldest chophouse, which was on this site since 1757.
Everyone’s got a story about whose fault it is that that chophouse closed. Rumours range from the former tenants being massively overdue rental payments before the pandemic, through to it being the greedy landlord’s fault. Either way, the former manager is bitter that in 2022, his run came to an end – he said this in a lengthy LinkedIn post – and rightly so: he was the final custodian of the Simpsons Tavern brand, which had been in place for 250 years.
In the drizzle, my colleague and I spend 45 minutes admiring the expensive, shiny refurbishment. Nursing pints of ale, we discuss the whole sorry situation. Despite my empathy for the old guard, who still retain the rights to the Simpsons Tavern name and plan to open somewhere else in the “spirit” of Simpsons, it makes for tantalising gossip. I’d love to know what went down, but the landlord is uncontactable. It’s impossible not to feel that the fallout is one big shame. RIP Simpsons Tavern, for now, anyway.
But today, we’re talking about Cloth Cornhill. Founders Ben Butterworth, Joe Haynes and Tom Hurst have recreated the old place as if it were 1757 again. The landlords were so scrupulous, they asked to see sample menus before they’d agree to hand over the keys, so this trio must be, at the very least, charismatic. Just don’t say that anything is in homage to the old venue or ‘bringing anything back’ as that gets them in murky legal waters.
Cloth Cornhill: how about a ‘pie course’?
Its gleaming mahogany high-backed benches have been buffered to within an inch of their lives, the pub reorganised so the feng shui is better – that’s a fancy way of saying it’s easier to get to the bar – and to give more emphasis to the building’s features, such as the front bay window. Period wooden floor replaces lino; two part-time workers spent six months polishing 22 faux vintage brass lamps.
On autumn’s first sodden Monday, the place is heaving. If the brief was to recreate a cacophonous Dickensian tavern, consider that met. Only there are also quiet contemporary enhancements, such as sound dampening added to the ceiling so you can actually have a conversation. One lonely photo of a barmaid with two cakes in front of her boobs hangs upstairs as a reminder of the good old days. I’m told some of the waitresses used to show their breasts if they got tipped enough, and many from the Simpson’s Tavern days have returned after the reopening (I can’t promise they were the ones flashing the customers however).
Former patrons have even demanded the old menu back. Is it pastiche? A little bit. How can it not be? But in 10 years, when the old guard have all died, no one will remember Simpsons Tavern anyway, they’ll just say there’s a really cool old school chophouse called Cloth Cornhill. Such is life.
Prepare your gout stool
As for the food, Victorian gentlemen would be preparing their gout stools. The menu features superlative spins on British comfort food. To kick off, devils on horseback (prunes filled with black pudding and wrapped in bacon) were just divine – dense enough to suck like boiled sweets. ‘Sausage on the side’ with mustard is delicious, the meat both course and smooth (a version of this dish was on the former Simpsons menu, although the owners insist it was inspired by a recipe in a book found during the refit).
We are recommended the ‘pie course’, which is the most hedonistic thing I have ever heard. I decide on venison, bacon and prune, with pastry that was nine tenths butter, and it is obviously banging, a reflection of Hurst’s philosophy: locally sourced meat, diligently cooked and married with the odd unusual ingredient.
We drink loads of booze to induce more hunger, plus we’re at Simpsons Tavern – sorry, Cloth Cornhill – and that’s what you do in here. “This place was known for gout production,” says our waiter, which I think was supposed to make us feel better about over-ordering. The sommelier brings over something from the Southern Rhone to follow a funky rose that tasted like overripe strawberries.
Welsh rarebit – for dessert!
From the mains, a stuffed potato dumpling with taleggio, girolles and saffron should surely be banned by the NHS. It is the sort of amped-up, 21st century comfort food that demonstrates how Hurst is future proofing the classics. It is the precursor to an enormous lamb chop, which was indecently tender, and served with anchovy butter. During our interview, the trio said they were proudly “countercultural” in their apathy towards healthy food, although the beetroot salad with hazelnut, goats curd and chicory is worth ordering.
Dessert tries a little too hard to be modern. We had something chocolatey cut into a fancy shape, which was nice, but we really wanted spotted dick and sticky toffee pudding. Perhaps these felt too on the nose but please, boys, give the people what they want. Welsh rarebit – for dessert! – was more like it, doused in balsamic vinegar and served the way it always has been. The dippy, melted cheese popular from Simpsons Tavern, the waiter says, is off-menu but on hold for the old regulars.
The house martini comes with sherry rather than vermouth, which is a nod to Haynes and Butterworth’s wine trading CV. It works, but mostly in ensuring I fall asleep in front of the TV with the light on when I get home. I’d briefly forgotten about feeling sad about Simpsons Tavern, which either makes me a sellout or Cloth Cornhill very good indeed – I’ll let you decide.
Go to clothrestaurants.com to book