Aristos, Euro princes, and captains of industry blow the family bank at this old-fashioned bastion of English fine dining on Jermyn Street (the place first opened on the Haymarket as a shellfish stall in 1742). Invariably fresh from a little snooze in their nearby St. James's gentlemen's clubs, male diners are requested to wear long-sleeved shirts and no sportswear or open-toed shoes at this linen-covered clubby time capsule and frightfully snooty ode to all things English. Armigerous signet ring–wearing posh patrons like to take half a dozen Beau Brummell oysters, followed by grilled Dover sole on the bone or fabulous native game in season, such as roast grouse, partridge, or teal. There are antediluvian savories like soft herring roe on toast, plus desserts like sherry trifle or bread-and-butter pudding. The use of mobile phones is prohibited, the wine's weighed heavily toward Bordeaux claret, and service, naturally, would put Jeeves to shame.