On a brisk London morning, the doors of Veeraswamy swing open just after midday, and the familiar scent of spices and simmering sauces drifts out onto Regent Street. Inside, the dining room glows with a certain old-world charm—dark wood, elegant table settings, portraits and photographs that tell the story of a century of service. For the staff gathered near the entrance, there is an unspoken heaviness in the air. The restaurant, which first opened in 1926, has long been more than a place to eat. It is a living monument, the oldest Indian restaurant in the United Kingdom, a place where Winston Churchill may have leaned across a table to discuss the empire, where Charlie Chaplin might have laughed over a curry, where Marlon Brando, with his unmistakable presence, once made an entrance. But now, after one hundred years, Veeraswamy faces an uncertain future. The Crown Estate, which acts as the property manager for the monarchy’s vast holdings, has decided that the restaurant will not have its lease renewed. The reason, they say, is a comprehensive refurbishment of Victory House, the historic building that houses Veeraswamy. The decision, however, has been met with outrage, sadness, and a determined effort to reverse it. A petition calling on the Crown Estate to reconsider has gathered twenty thousand signatures, and celebrity chefs like Raymond Blanc and Michel Roux have added their voices to the cause. For many, this is not simply a business dispute. It is a matter of cultural memory, of history being cast aside in the name of profit and modernisation, and of a beloved institution being pushed toward what its owner has called “the dustbin of history.”
Veeraswamy’s story begins long before the glittering lights of modern London. In 1926, Edward Palmer, a retired Anglo-Indian army officer with royal blood in his veins—he was a descendant of one of the Moghuls—decided to bring the vibrant, complex cuisine of India to the heart of the British capital. At the time, Indian food was still largely unknown to the British public, and the idea of a fine-dining Indian restaurant was almost revolutionary. Palmer’s vision was bold: he wanted to serve authentic Indian dishes in a setting that matched the elegance of the grand European restaurants of the era. The gamble paid off. Veeraswamy quickly became a favourite among aristocrats, politicians, and artists, and its reputation only grew over the decades. It earned a Michelin star, making it the first Indian restaurant in the country to receive such an honour, and it has catered for events at Buckingham Palace itself. The menus have evolved, but the essence of the place has remained the same: a celebration of Indian cuisine, refined and beautiful, served with a sense of ceremony and pride. Walking through the restaurant today is like walking through a living archive. Photographs line the walls, showing dignitaries and celebrities who have passed through the doors. The staff speak of the restaurant with a reverence usually reserved for cathedrals or museums. And for the regulars who return again and again, Veeraswamy is not just a restaurant; it is a ritual, a constant in a changing city, a place where history is served alongside every dish. To lose it, they argue, would be to lose a piece of London’s soul.
Nowhere is that sentiment more deeply felt than among the people who work there. Martin, a seventy-three-year-old doorman, has spent the last nine years greeting guests in his resplendent red uniform, his face a familiar and welcoming fixture at the entrance. For Martin, Veeraswamy is not just a job. It is a family, a community, a source of pride that he carries with him every single day. “This is a wonderful place to work, and I’m so proud of this historic place,” he says, his voice tinged with emotion. “It would be heartbreaking to see this place shut—and for what? It’s greed taking over at the expense of history.” He pauses, and then adds the thought that has been on so many people’s minds: “I don’t know if it were a restaurant run by Gordon Ramsay or another celebrity chef it would be treated the same way. But we do feel we have been badly treated.” His words hang in the air, heavy with a sense of injustice. Other members of the staff echo his feelings. They describe a workplace that has become a surrogate family, where generations have come to celebrate weddings, anniversaries, birthdays, and even quiet meals that mark the turning points of life. “We love this place, we are like a family,” one staff member says. “Generations of people have come to eat here. Regent Street won’t be the same without Veeraswamy.” The customers feel it too. On the day of the visit, the restaurant fills steadily from the moment it opens. Vijay, a twenty-nine-year-old diner who travels to London often on business, makes a point of stopping by whenever he is in the city. “I’ve been here a few times. It’s the best Indian food in London,” he says. “When I come to the UK on business I always try to have a lunch here. It would be a sad day if it closed. It’s so respected and all about the food and service. There are no gimmicks.” His words capture something essential about Veeraswamy: its quiet, confident excellence, its refusal to chase trends, its devotion to craft and tradition.
Behind the scenes, the fight to save the restaurant has been taken up with determination by its owner, Ranjit Mathrani. Mathrani, who has spent years nurturing the restaurant and protecting its legacy, has written to King Charles personally, asking him to intervene and prevent what he sees as an act of cultural vandalism. The response from Buckingham Palace, however, was careful and evasive: the matter, they said, was a question for Crown Estate officials, not for the monarch. That response did little to quell Mathrani’s frustration. In an ongoing court case, he has argued that Veeraswamy is being singled out, treated unfairly by a powerful landlord that no longer wants an Indian restaurant at the heart of its pristine new office development. His legal team, led by Guy Fetherstonhaugh KC, put the matter plainly in court: “The tenant’s surmise, there being no other reason of which is able to conceive is that the landlord simply does not wish for its hoped-for smart new offices to have an Indian restaurant in their midst, no matter how prestigious that restaurant may be.” The implication is stark—that Veeraswamy, despite its Michelin star, its royal connections, and its century of service, is seen as an inconvenient relic, an obstacle to a gleaming future. The case has been brought under the Landlord and Tenant Act, a legal avenue that offers tenants some protection against aggressive eviction, but the outcome is far from certain. Meanwhile, supporters continue to rally. The petition, with twenty thousand signatures, is a testament to the deep affection Londoners and visitors alike feel for the restaurant. The endorsement of celebrated chefs like Raymond Blanc and Michel Roux adds further weight to the argument that Veeraswamy is not just a local institution, but an important part of the nation’s culinary heritage.
For its part, the Crown Estate rejects any suggestion that it is acting out of prejudice or a preference for particular types of cuisine. A spokesperson was emphatic: “We strongly refute any suggestion that The Crown Estate prefers particular types of cuisine. We are proud to have a diverse dining offer across our West End portfolio, reflecting the diversity of London itself.” The decision, they insist, is rooted in practical necessity. Victory House, the building that houses the restaurant, requires a comprehensive refurbishment to bring it up to modern standards and to bring it into full use. The Crown Estate says it has a statuary responsibility, as steward of this historic area, to manage its properties responsibly and to create long-term value for the UK. Because the profits of the Crown Estate go to the Treasury, they argue, there is an obligation to ensure that public money is managed wisely. The spokesperson added: “This difficult decision has been taken in line with our responsibilities as stewards of this historic area, and alongside an offer to MW Eat to help them find new premises on our portfolio and to provide financial compensation.” That offer, however, has done little to soothe those who believe that a restaurant like Veeraswamy cannot simply be transplanted to another location. As Martin, the doorman, points out, “Even if we moved to another unit, the history of this building cannot be replicated.” There is something irreplaceable about a place where history has been allowed to accumulate, where the walls themselves seem to hold the memories of a hundred years of conversation, celebration, and communion. The Crown Estate’s offer of compensation and relocation feels, to many, like an attempt to put a price on something that is, in truth, priceless.
At the heart of this battle is a profound question about what kind of city London wants to be. Veeraswamy has stood for a century as a symbol of the city’s openness, its willingness to embrace new cultures and make them its own. It is a reminder that Indian food, now so beloved across Britain, was once seen as exotic and foreign, and that its rise to national popularity was due in no small part to pioneers like Edward Palmer. To close the restaurant now, to erase it from the landscape of Regent Street, would be to sever a living link to that history. It would also send a message that heritage and tradition have no place in a city driven by property values and development. The irony is not lost on supporters: the very institution that helped redefine British cuisine and contributed so much to the cultural wealth of London is being cast aside as outdated, while the building that houses it is to be “modernised” for offices that could be anywhere in the world. The fight to save Veeraswamy is therefore not just about one restaurant. It is about the values that define a city, about whether we make room for the past as we rush toward the future, and about the kind of memories we choose to preserve for the generations that come after us. The court case continues, and the outcome remains unclear. But whatever happens, the campaign to save Veeraswamy has already achieved something important: it has reminded us of how much a place can mean, not only to those who work there, but to a city and a nation. As Martin and his colleagues stand at the door, waiting to greet the next customer, they still hope that the King, or the courts, or simple common decency will prevail. They hope that Veeraswamy will be allowed to remain where it belongs, at the heart of London, its lights glowing warmly on Regent Street for another hundred years. And for anyone who has ever sat in its dining room, tasting the flavours of a century of tradition, that is a hope worth fighting for.
