A reopened Soho institution that lends itself to old-school, but discreet debauchery
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.
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