The French House, London: 'Stepping out of a time machine’ – restaurant review
It’s a hollow task to review a restaurant that has tottered on already, entirely without my gilded bon mots, for more than 100 years. I’m sure Francis Bacon, who drank copiously at The French House in Soho, would have curled a lip at a lowly critic prancing in to assess a space that he and Dylan Thomas had already deemed near-perfect. Furthermore, it is rare that I begin a review of a brand new venture by grounding it in the dusty, what-went-before, but in The French’s case, the past is not a foreign country. Yes, Neil Borthwick, formerly head chef of Merchant’s Tavern, may have taken the reins upstairs in this Grade II-listed building, but his approach is to preserve and conserve this patch of Dean Street’s wonky honour.
There is a school of thought that claims “Soho is dead”; killed off by developers, petty residents and the damned council. The bohemians have scattered, they say, and the knocking shops have slowed their knockings. It’s worth mentioning that other locals say this is rot, and that the place still lends itself to being a moral abyss. Whatever your view, it is inarguable that Dean Street has been gobbled up by Crossrail, Tesco Metro and bleak co-working spaces where the macchiato-fuelled shout into Skype about start-ups. This is why Borthwick’s all-new, not-new French House is so welcome. Because here is a place to talk all afternoon about nothing.
Famously, The French has frowned, over recent decades, on mobile phone and laptop usage. And although I couldn’t imagine the ever-genial Scotsman Borthwick haranguing an Instagram influencer for pouting beside his baked leeks and sauce gribiche, there’s definitely a sense that The French House lends itself to a more off-the-record, olde-style, discreet debauchery.
FacebookTwitterPinterest The French House’s goat’s curd on toast with confit garlic.
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A newcomer to The French House might wonder if there’s any lunch going there at all. This is a likeably shabby “French-themed” boozer. Inside, a chalkboard beside the narrow, well-plodded stairwell declares the “upstairs bar open”. There’s no music, so you arrive to the glorious clatter of your own feet. The dining room consists of 12 or so small, practical, old-fashioned tables. One member of staff alone serves the drinks, the dishes and runs the floor. By central London standards, this feels like stepping out of a time machine.
Borthwick presents a short, pleasing, changeable menu. Some Carlingford oysters. Perhaps rabbit rillettes or pork terrine with pickles. Maybe soft ox cheek with black pepper, or salt cod brandade with soft-boiled eggs. For afters, expect apple and quince crumble with shortbread, lemon posset with shortbread or peut-être un poached pear. This is classic, earthy cooking. It is a damned good lunch. It is French-ish, although it’s worth remembering that The French was so nicknamed after foreigner Victor Berlement took tenure in 1914. He was actually a Belgian. The clientele were seemingly too clattered on his home-bottled vin rouge to notice. If you’re vegetarian or vegan, there are scant few offerings here, and that approach is possibly the most French thing of all.
FacebookTwitterPinterest Leek and potato soup at The French House, Soho, London.
We began with a crisp glass of Canard-Duchêne. It was Monday at noon. Neither of us was drinking. Who drinks at lunchtime on a Monday any more? And with both of us so, so very busy, too. But it’s difficult to channel self-important sobriety at The French, knowing this is where Brendan Behan, Jeffrey Bernard and Dylan Thomas drank in the face of deadlines. So we had another. Then some Château Vircoulon Bordeaux. We shared a piece of sourdough toast slathered in goat’s curd. This arrived with a confit bulb of garlic with soft, translucent pearls to tease out with a knife and smear. We ate that with a thoughtfully constructed salad of roast squash, fresh watercress, pickled walnuts and roast Jerusalem artichokes. A bowl of lamb broth, more of a light stew than a bolshie soup, appeared with piece of pungent, rich Welsh rarebit. We ate brill in anchovy butter with a side of dressed green leaves and a plentiful pot of ridiculous, hips-be-damned pommes aligot.
The room filled up with tourists, food-scene folk, theatrical people. A large serving of freshly folded chocolate and hazelnut mousse lying in a puddle of cream was delivered, then some comté with a scattering of biscuits.
As we left, the rest of the room appeared to be settling in for some day drinking. The French has lasted a century by being fully supportive of such wanton behaviour. It is safe in Borthwick’s hands. Soho isn’t over. There are still many, many of us completely out to lunch.
• The French House 49 Dean Street, London W1, 020-7437 2477. Open Mon-Fri, lunch only (for now), noon-3pm. About £30 a head plus drinks and service.
Food 8/10
Atmosphere 8/10
Service 8/10
Grace’s Instafeed
FacebookTwitterPinterest Sunday morning: only God can judge me. Photograph: Grace Dent for the Guardian
FacebookTwitterPinterest Chocolate tart at The Mullion Cove hotel, Lizard – the loveliest hotel, where I plan to spend retirement.
Grace Dent’s restaurant reviews appear in the award-winning food magazine Feast, along with recipes by Yotam Ottolenghi and more top cooks, with the Guardian every Saturday.
There is a school of thought that claims “Soho is dead”; killed off by developers, petty residents and the damned council. The bohemians have scattered, they say, and the knocking shops have slowed their knockings. It’s worth mentioning that other locals say this is rot, and that the place still lends itself to being a moral abyss. Whatever your view, it is inarguable that Dean Street has been gobbled up by Crossrail, Tesco Metro and bleak co-working spaces where the macchiato-fuelled shout into Skype about start-ups. This is why Borthwick’s all-new, not-new French House is so welcome. Because here is a place to talk all afternoon about nothing.
Famously, The French has frowned, over recent decades, on mobile phone and laptop usage. And although I couldn’t imagine the ever-genial Scotsman Borthwick haranguing an Instagram influencer for pouting beside his baked leeks and sauce gribiche, there’s definitely a sense that The French House lends itself to a more off-the-record, olde-style, discreet debauchery.
FacebookTwitterPinterest The French House’s goat’s curd on toast with confit garlic.
Advertisement
A newcomer to The French House might wonder if there’s any lunch going there at all. This is a likeably shabby “French-themed” boozer. Inside, a chalkboard beside the narrow, well-plodded stairwell declares the “upstairs bar open”. There’s no music, so you arrive to the glorious clatter of your own feet. The dining room consists of 12 or so small, practical, old-fashioned tables. One member of staff alone serves the drinks, the dishes and runs the floor. By central London standards, this feels like stepping out of a time machine.
Borthwick presents a short, pleasing, changeable menu. Some Carlingford oysters. Perhaps rabbit rillettes or pork terrine with pickles. Maybe soft ox cheek with black pepper, or salt cod brandade with soft-boiled eggs. For afters, expect apple and quince crumble with shortbread, lemon posset with shortbread or peut-être un poached pear. This is classic, earthy cooking. It is a damned good lunch. It is French-ish, although it’s worth remembering that The French was so nicknamed after foreigner Victor Berlement took tenure in 1914. He was actually a Belgian. The clientele were seemingly too clattered on his home-bottled vin rouge to notice. If you’re vegetarian or vegan, there are scant few offerings here, and that approach is possibly the most French thing of all.
FacebookTwitterPinterest Leek and potato soup at The French House, Soho, London.
We began with a crisp glass of Canard-Duchêne. It was Monday at noon. Neither of us was drinking. Who drinks at lunchtime on a Monday any more? And with both of us so, so very busy, too. But it’s difficult to channel self-important sobriety at The French, knowing this is where Brendan Behan, Jeffrey Bernard and Dylan Thomas drank in the face of deadlines. So we had another. Then some Château Vircoulon Bordeaux. We shared a piece of sourdough toast slathered in goat’s curd. This arrived with a confit bulb of garlic with soft, translucent pearls to tease out with a knife and smear. We ate that with a thoughtfully constructed salad of roast squash, fresh watercress, pickled walnuts and roast Jerusalem artichokes. A bowl of lamb broth, more of a light stew than a bolshie soup, appeared with piece of pungent, rich Welsh rarebit. We ate brill in anchovy butter with a side of dressed green leaves and a plentiful pot of ridiculous, hips-be-damned pommes aligot.
The room filled up with tourists, food-scene folk, theatrical people. A large serving of freshly folded chocolate and hazelnut mousse lying in a puddle of cream was delivered, then some comté with a scattering of biscuits.
As we left, the rest of the room appeared to be settling in for some day drinking. The French has lasted a century by being fully supportive of such wanton behaviour. It is safe in Borthwick’s hands. Soho isn’t over. There are still many, many of us completely out to lunch.
• The French House 49 Dean Street, London W1, 020-7437 2477. Open Mon-Fri, lunch only (for now), noon-3pm. About £30 a head plus drinks and service.
Food 8/10
Atmosphere 8/10
Service 8/10
Grace’s Instafeed
FacebookTwitterPinterest Sunday morning: only God can judge me. Photograph: Grace Dent for the Guardian
FacebookTwitterPinterest Chocolate tart at The Mullion Cove hotel, Lizard – the loveliest hotel, where I plan to spend retirement.
Grace Dent’s restaurant reviews appear in the award-winning food magazine Feast, along with recipes by Yotam Ottolenghi and more top cooks, with the Guardian every Saturday.
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