Cloth Cornhill has opened on the site of the former Simpsons Tavern, and standing in the tiny, Netflix-Christmas-film courtyard outside, it is hard not to feel a pang of sadness. The opening drives the final nail into the coffin of the capital's oldest chophouse — the traditional British eating houses built around chops and grills — which traded on this site from 1757.

Everyone has a story about whose fault the closure was. Rumours range from the former tenants falling massively behind on rent before the pandemic to the greed of the landlord. Either way, the former manager is bitter that his run came to an end in 2 — a sentiment he voiced in a lengthy LinkedIn post — and understandably so: he was the final custodian of the Simpsons Tavern brand, which had been in place for 250 years.

In the drizzle, my colleague and I spent 45 minutes admiring the expensive, shiny refurbishment, nursing pints of ale and discussing the whole sorry situation. The old guard still retain the rights to the Simpsons Tavern name and plan to open somewhere else in the "spirit" of Simpsons. I would love to know what really went on, but the landlord is uncontactable, and it is impossible not to feel the fallout is one big shame. RIP Simpsons Tavern — for now, anyway.

Today, though, the subject is Cloth Cornhill. Founders Ben Butterworth, Joe Haynes and Tom Hurst have recreated the old place as if it were 1757 again. The landlords were scrupulous enough to ask to see sample menus before agreeing to hand over the keys, so the trio must, at the very least, be charismatic. Just do not tell them anything is an homage to the old venue or "bringing anything back" — that lands them in murky legal waters, since the Simpsons Tavern name sits with its former custodians rather than the new tenants, who must build an identity of their own from the room up.

How about a 'pie course'?

The gleaming mahogany high-backed benches have been buffed to within an inch of their lives, the pub has been reorganised so the feng shui is better — a fancy way of saying it is easier to get to the bar — and greater emphasis is placed on the building's features, such as the front bay window. A period wooden floor replaces the lino, and two part-time workers spent six months polishing 22 faux-vintage brass lamps.

On autumn's first sodden Monday, the place was heaving. If the brief was to recreate a cacophonous Dickensian tavern, consider it met — with the addition of quiet contemporary enhancements, such as sound dampening in the ceiling, so an actual conversation is possible. One lonely photograph of a barmaid with two cakes in front of her chest hangs upstairs as a reminder of the good old days. I am told some of the waitresses used to show their breasts if tipped enough, and many from the Simpsons Tavern era have returned since the reopening — though I cannot promise they were the ones flashing the customers.

Former patrons have even demanded the old menu back. Is it pastiche? A little bit — how could it not be? But in 10 years, when the old guard are gone, no one will remember Simpsons Tavern anyway; they will simply say there is a really cool old-school chophouse called Cloth Cornhill. Such is life.

Prepare your gout stool

As for the food, Victorian gentlemen would be preparing their gout stools. The menu features superlative spins on British comfort food. To start, devils on horseback — prunes filled with black pudding and wrapped in bacon — were divine, dense enough to suck like boiled sweets. 'Sausage on the side' with mustard was delicious, the meat both coarse and smooth; a version of the dish appeared on the former Simpsons menu, although the owners insist it was inspired by a recipe in a book found during the refit.

We were recommended the 'pie course', the most hedonistic thing I have ever heard. I chose venison, bacon and prune, its pastry nine-tenths butter, and it was, inevitably, superb — a reflection of Hurst's philosophy: locally sourced meat, diligently cooked and married with the odd unusual ingredient.

We drank plenty of booze to induce more hunger — this is Simpsons Tavern, sorry, Cloth Cornhill, and that is what one does here. "This place was known for gout production," our waiter said, which I suspect was meant to make us feel better about over-ordering. The sommelier brought over something from the Southern Rhône to follow a funky rosé that tasted of overripe strawberries.

Welsh rarebit — for dessert

From the mains, a stuffed potato dumpling with taleggio, girolles and saffron should surely be banned by the NHS. It is precisely the kind of amped-up, 21st-century comfort food that demonstrates how Hurst is future-proofing the classics. It preceded an enormous lamb chop, indecently tender and served with anchovy butter. During our interview, the trio said they were proudly "countercultural" in their apathy towards healthy food, although the beetroot salad with hazelnut, goat's curd and chicory is worth ordering.

Dessert tries a little too hard to be modern. We had something chocolatey cut into a fancy shape, which was nice, but we really wanted spotted dick and sticky toffee pudding. Perhaps those felt too on the nose — but please, give the people what they want. Welsh rarebit, for dessert, was more like it, doused in balsamic vinegar and served the way it always has been. The dippy melted cheese popular in Simpsons Tavern days, our waiter said, is off the menu but on hold for the old regulars.

The house martini comes with sherry rather than vermouth, a nod to Haynes and Butterworth's wine-trading backgrounds. It works, though mostly in ensuring I fell asleep in front of the television with the light on when I got home. I had briefly forgotten my sadness about Simpsons Tavern — which either makes me a sellout or means Cloth Cornhill is very good indeed. I will let you decide. Bookings are taken at clothrestaurants.com.