Memorable scenes at Simpson’s

A curious contribution to the obfuscation of chess tradition and history appears in the current August issue of Chess magazine, entitled “The Immortal Enigma”, from the eager pen of one John Henderson. The author, who I suspect is prone to ultracrepidarian tendencies, blithely casts doubt on the sanctified tradition that the Immortal Game was played on the hallowed chess turf of Simpson’s in the Strand. Once known as Simpson’s Divan. In the land of free speech, everyone is, of course, entitled to their own opinion. Some, for example, still adhere to the quaint notion that the earth is flat.

Henderson’s case might have borne more weight had he at least granted a specific  mention to that celebrated publication of an eye witness of the day, Elijah Williams. His book Horae Divanianae is Williams’ monumentum aere perennius, consisting, as it does, of “games played principally at Simpson’s Divan”. There, in pride of place, exploiting the well known memory-reinforcing recency effect, we find the aforementioned “Immortal Game”, resplendent as number 150 from the total of 150 chosen jewels, or duels, of the chess mind. Before challenging almost two centuries of received wisdom, perhaps it would have behoven the eager iconoclast to at least have consulted Elijah’s holy writ! I might add that Simpson’s itself and the learned journal of that august body, Chess Collectors International, are in no doubt that the Immortal Game was played at Simpson’s.

Referring to Simpsons, now happily reopened after the closure by Covid…

Feeding the Little Grey Cells

How, indeed, do chess Grandmasters nourish those little grey cells upon which victory and defeat so often precariously depend? A chess game may last for many hours, and it is one of the curious paradoxes of civilisation that a contest in which scarcely a limb is moved should demand an expenditure of nervous energy worthy of a military campaign.

In previous columns I have argued the case for a marine-based diet, rich in those beneficent brain foods—Omega-3 fatty acids, DHA (Docosahexaenoic acid), and EPA (Eicosapentaenoic acid)—so eloquently championed by Professor Michael A. Crawford, Director of the Institute for Brain Chemistry and Human Nutrition at London’s Imperial College. During the Howard Staunton Memorial Tournament, which I organised with one of Britain’s most distinguished artists, the late Barry Martin, at Simpson’s in the Strand, Britain’s foremost living grandmaster, Nigel Short MBE, was so persuaded by Professor Crawford’s opening oration that he embraced an entirely piscine regimen for the duration of the event. The experiment can hardly be dismissed as unsuccessful, for he proceeded to win the tournament.

There are, however, other roads to chess salvation. Garry Kasparov, for example, placed his confidence not in the bounty of the sea but in the substantial virtues of a large rare-cooked steak consumed about an hour before play. Most other elite grandmasters—not to mention we lesser mortals—would probably find themselves overcome by drowsiness after such a meal, drifting into a dangerous lethargy during the opening phase of the game. Writing from bitter personal experience, I can assure readers that even grandmasters may wander into catastrophe within the first few moves if the brain has not yet properly awakened.

Kasparov possessed an antidote peculiar to genius. He knew his openings with such absolute certainty that he could traverse their dangers almost mechanically, allowing the nourishment supplied by the steak to arrive, as though by careful appointment, precisely when the early middlegame demanded the full powers of his intellect.

Former World Champion Magnus Carlsen has rather different tastes, favouring Lebanese and Chinese cuisine, with a marked inclination towards vegetarian dishes. Indeed, the leading players of today are, in general, surprisingly ascetic in their habits.

It was not always so. Earlier generations of chess masters approached both food and drink with considerably greater enthusiasm. They regarded strong spirits, generous dining, and an ample supply of nicotine not as regrettable indulgences but almost as professional equipment.

Among the most remarkable examples was what might fairly be called the Georgian method, which elevated hospitality into an heroic art. In 1974 I competed in a Grandmaster tournament in Tbilisi, capital of Soviet Georgia. The rounds were punctuated by three evening banquets, to which every contestant was invited. Down the centre of an enormous table stretched an almost incredible procession of Georgian delicacies, groaning beneath heroic quantities of Soviet caviar, blinis and pelmeni, all accompanied by vintage Crimean champagne and formidable measures of Russian brandy or vodka.

To ensure that nobody committed the social crime of insufficient drinking, the hosts appointed a table captain—the Tamada—whose solemn duty was to deliver increasingly elaborate toasts. After each oration every guest was expected to drain his or her glass in anticipation of the inevitable refill, before the next toast commenced.

My Georgian friends explained that the recognised cure after such astonishing feats of consumption was simplicity itself. One staggered into the garden, dug a hole in the earth, lay face down with one’s stomach accommodated in the excavation, and cried aloud a solemn promise to Almighty God that never again would one indulge in such monstrous excess.

Until, naturally, the next occasion.

After the third and final banquet I departed during the small hours with my friend, the Icelandic Grandmaster Guðmundur Sigurjónsson. We searched the deserted streets in vain for a taxi until I observed a motor car gliding serenely towards us, bearing a flashing green light and driven by a smartly dressed gentleman wearing a peaked cap. Convinced that Providence had at last smiled upon us, I hailed what I confidently believed to be our long-awaited cab, despite Sigurjónsson’s increasingly urgent attempts to restrain me.

The car obligingly stopped.

As my Icelandic companion grew visibly more anxious—for reasons I entirely failed to comprehend—I addressed the driver in my vestigial Russian:

“Gastinitsa Iveria pojalsta,”

or words to that effect, requesting to be conveyed to the Hotel Iveria where we were staying.

On learning that we were two chess grandmasters requiring transport, the driver courteously saluted, ushered us into the vehicle, and immediately set off. The siren which suddenly burst into life ought to have supplied my first clue.

The second was that we found ourselves sitting inside what appeared to be a cage in the rear of the vehicle. The perceptive reader will already have reached the truth. I had hailed, not a taxi at all, but a police car.

Among foreign tournaments, only the banquets I encountered in the government rest houses of Shanghai, Guangzhou and Beijing rivalled those of Georgia. The most lavish extended to nineteen separate courses, including fish carved into dragons, crispy duck, dried baby scorpions, and, in place of vodka, the distilled Chinese spirit Maotai, which seemed to the British delegation to resemble a particularly energetic species of rocket fuel. Little wonder, perhaps, that the government required a rest after such repasts.

England during the Middle Ages also witnessed astonishing feasts, where forty deer and a thousand chickens might be sacrificed upon the twin altars of Dionysus and Hestia. Such magnificence had little direct connection with chess, save perhaps for the attendance of bishops—or conceivably Grand Masters of military crusading orders.

One medieval banquet, however, survives in unusually detailed financial records. It celebrated the installation of the new Archbishop of York, George Neville, brother of the celebrated “Kingmaker”, the Earl of Warwick, in 1466. Among its principal provisions were 104 peacocks, 4,000 ducks, 204 cranes, 400 herons, 1,000 sheep and 104 oxen.

Naturally, the most prestigious dishes were reserved for the most prestigious guests. As the historian Richard Eales has observed, it is rather uncertain whether those assembled accomplished anything afterwards. If they played chess at all, they were probably in no condition to remember either the moves or the result.

The most extravagant banquet ever associated with chess in Britain occurred during the London Tournament of 1883, where Johannes Zukertort triumphed ahead of such distinguished rivals as Wilhelm Steinitz, Mikhail Tchigorin and our own Joseph Henry Blackburne.

The menu, reproduced in Games Played in the London International Chess Tournament, 1883, edited by James Innes Minchin, appeared in French, no doubt because even roast beef acquires social distinction when described in another language. My translation reads as follows.

London International Chess Tournament Banquet, 1883

It is said—perhaps apocryphally—that when the toast “to the best chess player in the world” was proposed, both Zukertort and Steinitz simultaneously sprang to their feet.

Yet, after all these culinary adventures, there can be little doubt that the dining establishment which has entertained more chess Grandmasters than any other, whether in Britain or indeed throughout the world, is Simpson’s in the Strand. There, as we have already seen, Nigel Short briefly embraced Professor Crawford’s DHA-rich prescription of lobster, oysters and Dover sole in preparation for intellectual combat across the sixty-four squares.

Simpson’s itself has always remained faithful to its traditional roast beef, ceremonially carved at the table from gleaming silver trolleys.

During the nineteenth century it was, in truth, the greatest chess club in the world, where coffee and cigars rivalled roast beef as indispensable accompaniments to thought. The famous chessboard and pieces now displayed in the main foyer still commemorate the exploits of such immortals as Howard Staunton, Paul Morphy and Emanuel Lasker.

On my fiftieth birthday the genius loci, Brian Clivaz (now of L’Escargot in Soho, London), invited me to play a couple of games upon this hallowed battlefield, and most generously inscribed my name upon the commemorative plaque alongside those very gods of the game.

Simpson’s was, I firmly believe, the setting for this week’s masterpiece, The Immortal Game, won by Anderssen in 1851. Such was the astonishment of both the defeated player and the assembled spectators that top-hatted messengers were dispatched racing down the Strand to telegraph the moves to the Café de la Régence in Paris, then the very heart of French chess, though sadly no longer in existence.

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle must also be counted among the distinguished patrons of Simpson’s. He rewarded Sherlock Holmes with “something nutritious” there after the adventures of The Illustrious Client and The Dying Detective. It has long seemed to me that Sir Arthur also observed the chess champion Wilhelm Steinitz at Simpson’s and quietly borrowed his shaggy beard, great domed forehead and short but powerful frame when creating the scientific adventurer Professor George Challenger of The Lost World and The Poison Belt.

It is one of the enduring peculiarities of civilisation that mankind has never quite decided whether genius is nourished by oysters or by roast beef, by fish oil or by champagne, by asceticism or by excess. Chess has tried every experiment. It has crowned saints and gourmands alike. Yet perhaps there remains one article of diet indispensable to every master: not steak, nor sole, nor Maotai, but that indefinable appetite for truth which compels a man, after every move has been exhausted and every banquet concluded, to sit once more before the chessboard and seek another game.

The Mind Sports Olympiad returns to London from 22–30 August for its 30th edition, offering chess players nine days of competition, variety and the chance to test their skills in several different formats.

The chess programme includes Rapid Chess, Blitz Chess, Chess960, Bughouse Chess and Chess Problem Solving, giving players the opportunity to compete beyond the standard classical game. Whether you are an experienced tournament player, a keen club player or simply looking for a new chess challenge, the events are open to a wide range of ages and abilities.

Players can enter just one tournament or build a full week of chess around the schedule. They can also compete for points in the Pentamind World Championship, the Olympiad’s prestigious all-round competition, which rewards strong performances across five different mind sports.

Beyond chess, the event features more than 80 competitions, including Go, Scrabble, poker, Catan, Ticket to Ride, Carcassonne, Azul, Shogi, Othello, Wingspan and Sudoku. For the first time in the UK, the Olympiad will also host the World Team and World Individual Backgammon Championships.

In 1997 I co founded the First Mind Sports Olympiad , and on August 23 I have been invited back by current owner Etan Ilfeld to award the medals.

Spectators are welcome free of charge.

View the full schedule and register at:
https://mindsportsolympiad.com/2026-schedule-and-registration/

White: Adolf Anderssen Black: Lionel Kieseritzky

Opening: King’s Gambit Accepted: Bishop’s Gambit, Bryan Countergambit

1. e4 e5 2. f4

Here White commits the delightful indiscretion upon which all true romance depends. The King’s Gambit is the declaration that time is often richer than treasure, and that a pawn may be spent as a gentleman spends a coin upon a stranger’s supper—lavishly, because there are greater things than thrift. The nineteenth century adored such adventures; the modern age, having learned many methods of defence, is somewhat less inclined to applaud them.

2… exf4 3. Bc4

The Bishop’s Gambit marches boldly forward, serenely indifferent to the danger of 3…Qh4+, which robs White of castling. Yet there is a curious justice in the position. The queen that rushes out to administer punishment also exposes herself to the inconvenience of being chased home by developing pieces. Thus the aggressor often pays for his own audacity.

3… Qh4+ 4. Kf1 b5?!

This is the Bryan Countergambit, a favourite child of Kieseritzky himself. It is one of those ingenious ideas which possess every virtue except soundness. It dazzles the imagination more readily than it satisfies the judgement.

5. Bxb5 Nf6 6. Nf3

Development, in chess as in civilisation, is often mistaken for mere movement. Here the knight does both: it joins the struggle and politely informs the black queen that she has overstayed her welcome.

6… Qh6 7. d3

White quietly strengthens the centre, performing that humble labour without which no splendid edifice can endure. Some have preferred 7.Nc3, but there are many roads to confidence.

7… Nh5

The move contains both ambition and resignation. It threatens …Ng3+ and defends the pawn on f4, yet banishes the knight to the edge of the board—a melancholy frontier where knights can but  dream of the octopodal influence they once possessed.

8. Nh4 Qg5

Kieseritzky himself later suggested that 8…g6 would have been the sterner course. Even prophets are often wiser after the revelation.

9. Nf5 c6

Black both releases his queen’s pawn and strikes at the bishop. Yet modern judgement whispers that 9…g6 would have addressed the far more troublesome guest lodged upon f5.

10. g4? Nf6 11. Rg1!

Here Anderssen performs one of those acts which appear foolish until they become immortal. A bishop is offered with an air almost of absent-mindedness, yet should Black accept the gift, the queen will discover that she has wandered into a prison built not of walls but of tempi. Material is surrendered so that freedom may be won.

11… cxb5?

Black gathers the offered wealth but neglects the invisible riches of development. It is the ancient error of counting coins while one’s house quietly catches fire. More cautious players have preferred 11…h5, preserving greater harmony.

12. h4!

The knight upon f5 faithfully guards the pawn as it advances to harry the black queen. A humble foot soldier, properly protected, may trouble even royalty.

12… Qg6 13. h5 Qg5 14. Qf3

White now sets two snares at once.

• €Bxf4, imprisoning the queen.
• €e5, driving away the knight while uncovering an attack upon the rook at a8.

It is one of those moments when every path seems to lead the defender toward discomfort.

14… Ng8

The immediate dangers are parried, but only at the cost of retreating further into inactivity. Black’s army resembles a kingdom whose ministers have all remained indoors while the enemy freely occupies the countryside.

15. Bxf4 Qf6 16. Nc3 Bc5

At last Black develops a piece, and even discovers time to menace the rook on g1.

17. Nd5

Anderssen answers a threat not by denying it, but by making it irrelevant. The knight leaps forward with the confidence of one who has discovered that attack is the shortest road to safety. The move threatens both the queen and the devastating Nc7+, where king and rook would be caught together. Réti later suggested an even stronger route, but genius is not measured solely by perfection; it is measured by splendour.

17… Qxb2

Black wins another pawn and threatens the rook on a1 with check. Material accumulates steadily, rather like titles upon a bankrupt nobleman.

18. Bd6!

Now comes the move that has enchanted generations.

White calmly offers both rooks to fate. Cold analysis has since shown that stronger continuations probably existed. One might have won more simply, with less sacrifice and fewer fireworks. Yet if chess consisted only of efficiency, no one would remember it. The point of 18.Bd6! is not merely to win, but to reveal possibilities that seem impossible until they are played. As Kasparov observed, had Anderssen chosen a quieter victory, the game would have been poorer by one of its brightest jewels.

18… Bxg1?

Steinitz later argued that 18…Qxa1+ would have offered greater resistance. The defence remains complicated whichever road is chosen, but White’s attack has already gathered such momentum that material has become almost an afterthought.

19. e5!

Another rook is abandoned without ceremony. Yet the true sacrifice is subtler: Black’s queen is shut out from the defence of her own monarch. A queen may possess the whole board and still arrive one move too late.

White now threatens mate in two with 20.Nxg7+ Kd8 21.Bc7 checkmate. 

19… Qxa1+ 20. Ke2

Black’s attack has exhausted itself. The queen and bishop have penetrated deeply, yet they resemble invaders who have marched triumphantly into a city only to discover that the war has already been lost elsewhere.

Kieseritzky is generally said to have resigned here, though later accounts suggest the final moves may have been demonstrated rather than contested. Whether played upon the board or upon the imagination scarcely matters; they have entered the permanent literature of chess.

20… Na6

The knight hurries to prevent 21.Nxg7+ Kd8 22.Bc7 mate. Other defensive attempts also fail, for White’s initiative has become a force no longer measured by ordinary arithmetic.

21. Nxg7+ Kd8 22. Qf6+!

The queen now performs the supreme paradox. She gives herself away, not because she is weak, but because she has become unnecessary. Her sacrifice strips away the final defence and leaves the king exposed to the inevitable.

22… Nxf6 23. Be7 checkmate 1–0

The conclusion is one of the greatest ironies in chess. Black possesses a queen, two rooks, and a bishop more than his opponent. By every accountant’s reckoning he is fabulously wealthy. Yet wealth has become useless where the king himself has nowhere left to stand.

Thus ends the Immortal Game: not as a lesson that material is worthless, but as a reminder that material is only ever the servant of purpose. Anderssen won because he understood that pieces exist to create checkmate, and not checkmate to justify the possession of pieces.

I conclude with a brace of wins by the illustrious author of Horae Divanianae, the first , a delightful miniature, won , coincidentally, against a near namesake of our notorious champion of ultracrepidarianism:

Elijah Williams vs William Henderson
Bristol (1845)

Double Duck Formation

1.f4 f5 2.d4 d5 3.Nf3 c5 4.e3 e6 5.Bd3 c4 6.Be2 Nf6 7.O-OBd7 8.b3 b5 9.bxc4 bxc4 10.Ne5 Nc6 11.Bh5+ g6 12.Nxg6hxg6 13.Bxg6+ Ke7 14.Ba3+ Nb4 15.Bxb4 checkmate 1-0

Elijah Williams vs Marmaduke Wyvill

London (1851), round 3

Sicilian Defence: McDonnell Attack

1.e4c5 2.f4 e6 3.Nf3 g6 4.e5 Nh6 5.b3 Nc6 6.Bb5 Ne7 7.Nc3a6 8.Ne4 Bg7 9.Nd6+Kf8 10.Be2 Nhf5 11.Ne4 b6 12.d3 d513.Nf2 d4 14.g4 Nh6 15.Ng5 Nd5 16.Nfe 4f6 17.exf6 Bxf618.O-O Kg7 19.Nxf 6Qxf6 20.Bf3 Bb7 21.Qe1 Rae8 22.Bd2Rhf8 23.Qh4 Rh8 24.Rae1 Ng8 25.Qg3 h6 26.Ne4 Qd8 27.f5exf5 28.gxf 5g5 29.Nxg5 hxg5 30.Bxg5 Rh3 31.Bf6+ Kxf632.Qg6 mate 1-0

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