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Sherlock’s Grill (Restaurant, Hotel)

Picture of Sherlock’s Grill in Marylebone, London

Park Plaza Sherlock Holmes Hotel, 108 Baker Street, Marylebone, London, W1U 6LJ
Cuisine: European
Tel: 020 7958 5210 | Email to Sherlock’s Grill | Website | Transport: Baker Street | Write review

Sherlock’s Grill Review

Book a table at Sherlock’s Grill

Best for: solving mysteries over cocktails.

Great: char-grilled steak and homemade breads.

“We have to be there at half past seven on the dot, my dear Watson.” I had lowered my voice, speaking in hushed tones as I glanced around to see who might have heard.

“Who is Watson? Be where at half seven?” asked the voice on the other end of the phone. “Claire, what’s going on?”

Tutting, I said, “dear Watson, you’re mistaken. It’s your old friend, Sherlock Holmes. Forgotten me so soon?”

“Claire, really, I don’t have time for this. I’ve had a rubbish day at work, just got soaked in a freak thunderstorm and a pigeon…”

“Watson!” I hissed. “Please confirm that you’ll meet me at Baker Street at seven thirty. No earlier, no later. We have strict instructions.”

“Baker Street?”

I hung up.

Pulling my coat up around my ears, I had another look at the Londoners rushing past. No one was looking in my direction. Interesting. I skulked down the road as only detectives do, dipping into a coffee shop to consult a map.

Two minutes later Watson was standing outside the Park Plaza Sherlock Holmes Hotel.

“Ah, you’re early old boy. Excellent.”

“Claire, really, honestly, what is this all about?”

“Well, Watson, it’s simple.” Around the corner I explained the task to him as he smoked a cigarette. I couldn’t risk anyone seeing us before we entered.

“Right, OK, sounds great and I get it,” he said. “But honestly, do you have to keep calling me Watson?”

“It’s our job to uncover the mysteries of the Sherlock Grill. Do you understand?” Without waiting for an answer, I walked to the entrance.

A man greeted us as we entered with two vividly coloured drinks. Watson grabbed one greedily.

“Stop!” Like lightning my hand covered the top of the glass. Watson snatched the cocktail back.

“What now?”

“We don’t even know what it is, yet.”

The man from behind the bar looked at us out of the corner of his eyes. He spoke with a thick French accent.

“It’s a cocktail designed for the upcoming London Fashion Week. The cocktail you have in your hands is called the Gaga, a blend of blue Curacao, vanilla liquor and lemonade.”

I whispered to Watson. “I think they’re trying to get us drunk.”

He agreed, sucking noisily through his straw. “I think you’re right; brilliant!”

Not a minute too soon we were ushered into the restaurant and, after a brief trip to the toilet (a mystery in itself), we were seated.

“If we didn’t already know it, I’d think we weren’t in a hotel at all,” I remarked.

The restaurant was modern French in design, with crisp white tablecloths and sparkling wine glasses on the table. Before we had any time to consult the menu, the waiter had brought over a plate of homemade olive, tomato and mozzarella breads with a side of crispy fried onions, a selection of which I put onto my plate to inspect closer.

“Are you going to eat that?” Watson was looking at me incredulously, a smattering of crumbs on his plate in place of the bread that was there mere moments before.

“Smells homemade.” I took a bite. “Tastes great. Nothing untoward here.”
I polished the plate off, picking lazily at the last fried onions.

There was no mystery to the main course. It was all delicious. Watson wolfed down his perfectly cooked medium-rare steak and chips, mopping Béarnaise sauce up with the last of his salad while I looked on jealously.

“Watson, I think I should probably have a bit of your steak; all part of the investigation, of course.”

“But you’re refusing to share yours!” he responded, fork hovering wildly over my chestnut and gorgonzola gnocchi. I slapped his hand away.

“I’m Sherlock Holmes, my dear Watson. I don’t share food.”

“I’ve never heard of that before,” grumbled Watson.

Dessert was another triumph. My pear tarte tatin was sumptuous and rich with a caramel glaze and served with ice cream that cut through the sweetness. Watson’s was an equally triumphant Crème Brulee.

Leaving two hours later, with our bellies leading us out, I asked Watson to sum up the evening.

“Excellent,” he cried.

“Elementary,” said I.

...read more

Claire Williams

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