Summary

The author describes a dining experience at Sweetings, a traditional fish restaurant in London, where they are introduced to the old-world customs and social dynamics of the City's financial elite.

Abstract

The article recounts the author's visit to Sweetings, a historic fish restaurant in the City of London, known for its old-school charm and clientele of financial veterans. The author, initially unaware of the restaurant's protocol, is invited to lunch by a senior consultant and a city grandee. The meal is accompanied by traditional drinks like black velvet, a mix of Guinness and champagne, and the atmosphere is steeped in tradition and nostalgia. The author observes the interactions between the grandee and other prominent figures from the City's past, noting the camaraderie and the lingering influence of the old boys' network. Despite the anachronistic setting, the author appreciates the experience as a rite of passage and acknowledges the quality of the food, while also reflecting on the generational shift in the business world.

Opinions

The author initially feels out of place due to the unfamiliar protocol and traditional atmosphere of Sweetings.
The restaurant is perceived as a time capsule, with its clientele and customs reflecting a bygone era of the City's financial district.
The author is both amused and slightly critical of the old boys' network dynamics, which seem out of touch with modern business culture.
There is a sense of exclusivity and privilege associated with the establishment, as evidenced by the grandee's familiarity with the staff and the absence of reservations.
The author feels a sense of belonging among the older clientele, contrasting it with the youthful environment of the crypto unicorn where they currently work.
The author appreciates the social interactions and the historical significance of the restaurant, despite recognizing that the traditional power structures are diminishing.
The quality of the

A Wrinkle In Time

Where old brokers go to dine

I have walked past the place for years.

Sweetings, the fish restaurant on the corner of Queen Street and Queen Victoria Street in the City of London looks like a portal into a bygone era. Always busy, but with frosted glass obscuring what is actually going on inside.

Now I have an invitation to be initiated into its mysteries.

The person extending the invitation is a respected senior consultant in her own right. Bear that in mind further down this piece.

The other invitee is a city grandee, who has popped up in a succession of senior roles in the City over the years. I wasn’t aware that I was even on his radar, so I am flattered that he has asked our mutual friend to set up a lunch appointment.

There is a protocol in place to which I am totally oblivious. On arriving, I mention the people who may have made the reservation, only to be told that reservations are not taken for this spot, and to ensure service customers need to arrive as soon as possible after midday.

My hosts are already there and rescue me, shepherding me to the bar.

Tankards are produced, and I ask for a half of lager.

It seems that this is not the standard order, and the other tankards are already filled with black velvet. A mixture of Guinness and champagne, which I am told harks back to the funeral of Prince Albert. Sweetings has been open in its current location since 1889, and the weight of tradition here is palpable.

The maitre d’ is a close confidant of the grandee and some hurried gossip is exchanged.

— Didn’t you know, he left his wife for the secretary in the end. — My God, you are more up to date than I am. I only saw him a month ago.

There seems to be a very high ratio of staff to clients. And we have a waitress all to ourselves, standing behind the counter, squeezed in by the window. There is one seat on the other side too, and the consultant is urged to duck under the counter and occupy “the naughty chair”, her recent back surgery notwithstanding.

The lunch is great, but the social interactions are what grab my attention. Every few minutes the grandee jumps up from his seat because he has spotted another relic from his heyday. Hands are shaken and introductions made. This guy is an ex Lord Mayor of the City of London, and this one the Sheriff of something or another.

I get introduced by name. The consultant gets introduced a few times as the grandee’s niece “in the Russian sense”.

— Doesn’t that grate?, I ask her — No, it’s just a bit of fun. We always say that

I ponder on how long it would take, if we were anywhere rooted in the current century, before such a comment would be referred to Human Resources or outed via social media.

One bonus is that I feel my age less acutely in this environment than I have in the past twelve months of working at a crypto unicorn among twenty and thirty-somethings. My silvering locks look positively youthful in comparison with the whites and greys surrounding me.

The dinosaurs mill about their watering hole, seemingly unaware that the world has moved on, confident that this is still the place where deals get done and networks reinforced. The old boys’ club has imploded and shrunk to a black hole from which nothing will ever escape.

By the end I’m still not sure why I was there, or what the ask will be in business terms. No matter. In all likelihood my next client is busy duking it out in a hackathon rather than rubbing shoulders with the City elite from yesteryear. But I’m pleased to have had my long overdue rite of passage.

And the fish really was very good indeed.

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