Focus: Your usual table Mr Wilde? It's gone, sir

The death of a fully fledged, silver-serviced, brass-knobbed British institution is hard to swallow, says David Randall

If Jeffrey Archer had been told by the judge that he'd have to stay in prison until the Savoy Grill underwent a total makeover, he'd probably have fainted in the dock. He'd have assumed, along with the rest of its celebrity clientele, that wholesale changes at this conservative establishment were at least a lifetime and no remission away. But when the novelist's sentence ends in 2005 – unless he makes parole – a surprise awaits him: the restaurant which has been a works canteen to the rich and famous since 1889 will be very different.

Next spring, the Grill's fixtures, fittings and food, which resemble those of a Fifties boardroom, will be swept aside and replaced by something light, airy and art deco. Gone, too, will be the roasts trolley and the school dinnerish fare that went with it. Enter contemporary selections, including baby turbot, all part of a revolution being orchestrated by chef Marcus Wareing, whose uncompromising message is: "I want it to be alive and exciting, not sad and boring. I'm 32, not 62."

Judging by the harrumphing from Grill regulars such as Tory MP Sir Nicholas Soames, some see Mr Wareing's plans as sacrilege. Understandable, for what is being tampered with is a fully fledged, silver-serviced, brass-knobbed, British institution.

It has been that right from the start, when owner Richard D'Oyly Carte, Oscar Wilde's lecture agent and stager of Gilbert and Sullivan operas, opened the hotel off the Strand in London. He hired César Ritz as manager and Auguste Escoffier as chef, and they soon had the most famous names in Europe eating, if not out of their hands, then off their plates. And very well they did out of it; too well, in fact, for in March 1898 the celebrated pair were sacked for fiddling the books, and police had to escort them and 16 chefs off the premises.

The headlines ("Savoy Hotel Sensation") did little to dent the Grill's allure and, ever since, the place has been catnip to the illustrious. It would be easier, and certainly quicker, to list the famous who have not dined there, so a sample of those who did will have to do: Dame Nellie Melba (for whom Escoffier created pêche Melba), Oscar Wilde (resident for a time, hence three Savoy staff giving evidence against him at his trial), Claude Monet, Bram Stoker, TE Lawrence, both Goldwyn and Mayer, at least one Warner brother, Laurence Olivier and Vivien Leigh (who met in the Grill), Greta Garbo (hiding under a vast hat, of course), Sophia Loren (down whose inviting décolletage a waiter spilled a bloody mary), Elizabeth Taylor (the first of many honeymoons was spent there), Maria Callas, John Major (who, despite his Happy Eater image, always chose the Grill for the No 10 staff Christmas lunch), and Richard Harris (around whose tieless presence a screen was placed).

But not Paul Robeson, barred in the Twenties for being black; nor Duran Duran, who declined to swap leathers for jacket and tie. Marcel Marceau also fell foul of the tie rule, despite offering to mime one.

Churchill was perhaps the most celebrated habitué, occupying table four in the corner, and known to sometimes tip 10-shilling notes when that could buy a weekend's groceries. His most unusual gratuity was during meat rationing when he demanded a large envelope, slipped the beef from his plate into it, and presented the package to a startled waiter to take home to his family. War also brought out the best in Grill regular Noel Coward, who entertained a room full of diners through a long night of bombing. Heroism had nothing to do with it. "Once the air raid had started," admitted the great man, "people were not allowed to leave so I had a captive audience for the first and only time in my life. I sang every bloody song I knew before they could escape."

Coward's turn was in a long tradition. Caruso sang at the Savoy, George Gershwin gave the first rendition of "Rhapsody in Blue" there, and, one day, Groucho checked in. "Will you be staying long?" he was asked. "Until it stops raining," he said.

The proximity to Fleet Street also ensured the Savoy was a favoured haunt of editors. Rupert Murdoch once walked in to find The Sun's Larry Lamb entertaining half the paper's executives at his expense, and the Grill was also reportedly the scene for the exchange between the Daily Mirror's notoriously foul-mouthed Guy Bartholemew and a nearby table. Neighbour: "I say, would you mind moderating your language?" Bart: "Do you know who I fucking well am? I'm the editor of the Daily fucking Mirror." Neighbour: "I rather thought you might be."

But gone are the days when Thatcher and her Cabinet heavyweights, her media adviser Sir Tim Bell and businessman Lord King, dined on roast beef and the affairs of state. This is not a New Labour hang-out; nor, since Fleet Street scattered, a place where many editors maintain tables. A certain type of businessman and a certain age of politician still holds court, but you can see Marcus Wareing's point. Perhaps it is time to give the old place the kind of shake-up its Establishment clientele have already had.