Kettner’s Townhouse
29 Romilly St,
London W1D 5HP
Kettner’s is Soho’s great survivor, a rakish flâneur with raffish charm and an ever-wandering eye. His suits may have been a little worn, his shoes in need of a resole, but he wore his elegance lightly, like a splash of Trumper’s Extract of Limes. Who knows how many champagne-fuelled flings, exotic entanglements and torrid trysts have taken place in this Romilly Street institution. It’s where Oscar Wilde entertained some of his more, well, fresh-faced friends, Edward VII discussed Uganda, upstairs, with Lillie Langtry. And Winston Churchill had a drink. Or ten.
The refurbished dining room. Kettner’s is Soho’s great survivor, a rakish flâneur with raffish charm and an ever-wandering eye
But it’s always been sexy rather than seedy, a softly lit and sybaritic escape from the grey mundanities of everyday life. I hadn’t been in years, probably not since I worked in Soho in the late 1990s. Back then, there was a Pizza Express in there, alongside the famed Champagne Bar. It was probably one of the best places to eat, as the area was a culinary wasteland. All the hot culinary action happened out east. Anyway, the place has now been bought by one of Soho’s modern saviours, Nick Jones, the quietly brilliant brains behind the Soho House empire.
And many of the original features have been buffed and polished and brought back from the dead. The plaster moulding in the dining room, along with the mirrors, which seem artfully aged, but have actually been lovingly restored. Just like the mosaic floor of the Champagne Bar. Elsewhere, there’s a studiedly expensive shabbiness to the place – the fabric on the chairs is artfully faded, the parquet floor discreetly scuffed, while the material covering the banquettes has random stains, as if champagne has been spilled from the flutes of princes and courtesans alike. There are old lamps scattered about, and pot plants and antique screens, giving the feel of lived-in Edwardiana. Jazz trills in the background, to be replaced, as lunch gets going, by a very good pianist. So I like the room, and the service too – slick, but never pushy. Glasses are constantly filled, attention gained by the merest flicker of the eye.
Things start well with the food, a mighty silver bowl filled with crushed ice and crudités (pert carrots, fiery radishes with their leaves, romanesco, endive and more) with a gently herby mayonnaise. The ‘potato cakes’ that come with the home-made taramasalata (gently smoky, slyly rich) turn out to be obese chips. Well, deep-fried oblongs of crushed spud. But they’re damned fine too.
Gougères arrive under a blizzard of grated gruyère, but they’re a touch dense and heavy. They clump where they should be gliding. Not a patch on those beauties at Noizé. Devon crab is spiked with batons of apple, but it’s a little dull, lacking the ethereal sweetness of the truly fresh. We wonder if it had been picked the day before and spent a night in the fridge’s chilly embrace. Roasted bone marrow is underseasoned and cries out for an uplifting slash of acidity. ‘St John, it ain’t,’ grumbles Seb, and he’s right. Raw Gigha halibut uses good-quality fish, and thinly sliced radishes add welcome crunch. But any subtlety is lost in a clumsy splodge of incongruous smoked cream. Mains are fine, if a little uninspiring. A decent Kettner’s omelette is generous with good-quality smoked eel and salty shards of crisp bacon too. Beautifully wobbly inside, it’s Rowley Leigh level. But then I’d eat anything featuring this peerless pairing of surf and turf. There’s also a splurge of entirely unnecessary sauce dumped in the middle. Why?
Sea bass, monk’s beard and sauce vierge. A lunch that doesn’t ever offend. And occasionally even delights
Bouillabaisse is generous with the fish, although it lacks the muscular grunt of the truly great. It’s perfectly polite, but this is not a dish concerned with good manners. I want the salty, foul-mouthed swagger of the drunken sailor.
A lunch, then, that doesn’t ever offend. And occasionally even delights. But on the whole, unlike the room, it’s hardly memorable, shuffling off meekly to the distant reaches of the back of my mind. It’s great to have the old roué back, and the mischief is still stained deep in its walls. But next time, like the kings, poets, playwrights and prime ministers before, me, I’ll skip the grub. And retire, disgracefully, next door, to that most lovely and louche of legendary London bars.
About £35 per head
What Tom ate this week
Sunday
More fasting at the Buchinger Wilhelmi clinic, Germany. Pear juice for lunch. Spinach soup for dinner. Surprisingly not hungry.
Monday
Apple juice for lunch. Clear vegetable consommé for dinner.
Tuesday
Breakfast day! Apple purée and a single cashew. Later, vegetable and potato soup.
Wednesday
Porridge for breakfast. Braised fennel for lunch. Roasted vegetables for dinner. Proper food. Back home tomorrow.