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I'll miss the legendary Gay Hussar when it closes its doors: not for the food so much, but for the character of the place and the people who went there. Don't let your beloved haunts go the same way
My tiny (and yes, somewhat obsessive) corner of the internet was howling in anguish on Friday as news filtered in about the imminent sale of The Gay Hussar restaurant. Overreaction? I don't think so.
These moody, dark jewel-hued rooms have lurked in Greek St for 60 years now. Declaring itself England's only Hungarian restaurant, it's not only a poignant ghost of old Soho, but a shrine to political history, the scene of endless plotting and backstabbing, pacts and backscratching.
Every corner and cranny is plastered with books and pictures. There's Tony Blair, grinning on the cover of his autobiography, nudging up to Karl Marx. Walls are papered with framed Martin Rowson cartoons of the political elite's great and not-so-good. It is famously and indelibly associated with Labour, with devoted regulars including Roy Hattersley and Michael Foot: there were even rumours of a camera link directly to Alistair Campbell's office. But it was used by Tories too: this was where Conservative "Wets" plotted to bring down Thatcher in the early 80s.
I went a few weeks ago with a pal, another restaurant critic who shares my fetish for the old-school; she had last been here with comedian Frank Skinner who dubbed it "the Goulash Archipelago". And while it was quiet-ish, our fellow diners were fantastically colourful: an eightysomething dame in leather trousers with almost-dead husband and rather perkier minder-bodyguard; a silver fox bellowing at his glamourpuss companion that he was about to introduce her to the next Sinatra. The tables, set with crossed red chilli peppers and folksy-patterned crockery, are so close together that its other claim to fame – as hotbed of delicious, indiscreet gossip – could still be easily detected, even if former owner, salonnier and legendary gossip vampire Victor Sassie was no longer there to do the spreading.
Victor's remarkable insider knowledge wasn't just gleaned directly from the politicians and socialites on whom he swooped like an avuncular vulture: renowned chef Shaun Hill, of The Walnut Tree, worked there in the early 70s "cooking gulyas, and helping Victor cook the books". He recalls one very unique feature: Sassie had installed listening devices in the walls of each floor. No wonder he was so clued up.
While the social media "noooooooos" were being wailed, there were also mutterings that the food was pretty dismal. And yes, our lunch was firmly rooted in another century, but it wasn't really much the worse for it. There was a lot of pinkness: fat pink sausages, the famous cherry soup (one Twitter chum recalls when she was pregnant and living nearby, the restaurant would send her emergency supplies of the cult classic); slabs of fatty, ripe pink goose with spice-scented fuchsia cabbage. There were lashings of sour cream and paprika, and if an item could be stuffed or wrapped, it was. Apart from the odd anomaly – vegetarian goulash – it hadn't changed much over the decades. This was food for the eponymous Hungarian horsemen to bolster themselves before a night of riotous drinking. An approach cheerfully adopted by the likes of notorious MP Tom Driberg, whose Gay Hussar antics included trying to recruit Mick Jagger into standing for the Labour party in an upstairs salon. It was the standing of a different kind of member that allegedly caused Jagger to scarper from what became fondly known as The Tom Driberg Memorial Room.
I'm so saddened by the news that somewhere as drenched in character and fable is being sold off. Some of my favourite joints in the world are old-timers: San Francisco's wood-panelled Tadich grill; leery eeriness in LA's Formosa Café or Musso & Franks. The perfectly-preserved Alvar Aalto interior of Savoy in Helsinki. Barcelona's grumpy, seductive 7 Portes. These are all still loved, still thriving.
But restaurants echoing with the voices of the past are disappearing, while the new foodiegentsia follows the herd in search of the latest fist food. Great old places such as Odin's, with its dining room full of Hockneys and Proctors; the deliciously melancholy Lorelei, which was like walking into a past furnished with frothy coffees in pyrex cups. The seminal Hole in the Wall. Judge me if you like, but I cried when the New Piccadilly closed its doors for ever. And yes, I did use it. I did go there.
Use them or lose them, I say. Wallow in the extant likes of Simpson's Tavern, the Bleeding Heart, Mr Thomas's Chophouse. Bobby's in Leicester for its rousing chaats. Look at how gorgeous Rogano in Glasgow has survived and thrived over the decades. Few have the rackety, politics-drenched loucheness of The Gay Hussar however. I fantasise that owners Corus Hotels might be savvy enough to install a decent chef while keeping the rest as is, but I know it's more likely to be a "gourmet" fried chicken outlet. I'm off to Rules now, to raise a glass to the departed.