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    Great Pubs of England, Part 3. The Guinea Grill

    The definition of “conviviality”, according to the New Oxford Dictionary, is “fit for a feast, or festive”. The Guinea Grill actually predates the word – there’s been a pub on this Mayfair site since the fifteenth century, and “conviviality” wasn’t coined until the mid-17oos – but it’s not hard to imagine this eminently congenial establishment being its inspiration. Because here, a stone’s throw from the bustle of Bond Street and Berkeley Square, is a place where time seems to slow down, and the eternal verities – a medium-rare porterhouse, a fine claret, a sharp Stilton – can be lingered over and thoroughly savoured.

    If The Guinea fosters a strong sense of loyalty among its patrons, from Mayfair residents and local office workers to returning American and European visitors, that’s because of its perception as a hidden gem. Tucked away in Bruton Place – a street of mews dwellings that once held the carriages and servants of Mayfair’s swells, who fled the City of London after the seventeenth-century ravages of the Great Fire and Great Plague – it’s the kind of place you stumble upon, your interest piqued by a compact, wood-panelled, warm-hued bar peopled with patrons nursing pints of ale and tucking into Welsh Rarebit much as the coachmen and ladies’ maids would have done nearly half a millennium ago.

    Royal patronage is inferred by a photo of the Queen Mother pulling a pint on a visit from nearby Clarence House (with a tumbler of gin, her tipple of choice, presumably just out of shot), while the crowd good-naturedly spills into the street during the warmer months.

    But the delightful sense of discovery doesn’t end with the bar. Through a separate entrance, and past a tilted, smoking-hot grill and a cabinet of choice meat cuts (dry-aged and supplied by master butcher Frank Godfrey of Islington, who maintains a dedicated fridge for The Guinea), you’re shown into a secluded dining room, where, as food critic Giles Coren wrote in The Times, “well-dressed gentlemen and the odd lady are rammed hugger-mugger, as in the chophouses of the Victorian Golden Age.”

    Portraits of Mayfair eminences look on from the walls as a menu of imperishable British classics – prawn cocktail with Marie Rose sauce, rock oysters, steak and kidney pie, beef Wellington – is served. Here, as afternoon elides into evening and lunch elides into dinner, buttons are undone, friendships are cemented or created, and the old-school ambience is relished Mayfair, for all its conspicuous wealth – this is, after all, the most expensive spot on the London Monopoly board, with as many private members’ clubs and blue-chip galleries as public bars – still retains a somewhat raffish air, which The Guinea personifies.

    You might find Madonna, Mick Jagger or Henry Cavill here (and one-time Mayfair resident Jimi Hendrix was a regular), but they ll be hanging out at the bar, or wolfing down a pie, alongside the disparate cast of art dealers, hedge fund CEOs, politicians, impeccably accessorised local residents, and Mis spooks (who, of all people, appreciate the establishment’s discretion) that regard The Guinea as their own.

    The variety of “Ests” it displays mark key moments in its evolution – 1423, when it was established; 1675, when it became The Guinea; 1851, when it became a Young’s pub; and even 2021, as it expands into a building across the street – but, at its heart, The Guinea is simply a fail-safe staple, a trusted friend to those in the know; a place that was around before the notion of conviviality officially existed, but where it came to reign supreme.

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