The Sunday Times Magazine - UK (2021-11-21)

The Sunday Times Magazine • 61

It’s so

boring,

so safe, so

luxury-

pimped

nursery

food — as

if Nanny

had it

away with

a plutocrat

suits and correspondent shoes,

one minute insulting Princess

Margaret and falling asleep under

tables, the next, as AA Gill told

us, being discovered by a waiter

“eating a lady guest on the bar”.

The glitterati loved to witness

his pissed misbehaviour in the

way that Victorians used to enjoy

outings to Bedlam.

It fell into administration in

2020, victim to — well, you know,

another classic to bite the dust.

But shortly afterwards came news

of a reprieve: a duo of hospitality

entrepreneurs and capital

investment to the rescue. Perhaps

this heralded a thrilling new life

for an old trouper stumbling

towards the knacker’s yard in a fug

of tourists and mediocrity, art

and buzz gone decades ago along

with the starry owners. (Caine

had become weary of handling

Langan. As had Langan, resorting

to self-immolation.)

Perhaps not. It’s a long time

since a restaurant has made me feel

so unwelcome. Two greeters —

bouncers? — man the entrance,

snapping, “Have you booked?”

before allowing me to squeeze in

between them. That booking had

been a chore too, offering either

5.30 or 10pm, then: “We politely

request that all parties of more

than 5 guests are a mix of ladies

and gentlemen.” Did nobody tell

the party of eight men beside us?

Maybe it just means women? And

“Gentlemen are required to wear

a jacket.” Famously, Langan was

one of the first to dispense with

dress codes; this throwback is

neither cute nor charming. In the

evening, guests “must be over

16 years old”. Shouldn’t be tricky

as the demographic is “senior”

— the next table to us is almost

certainly an elderly cabal of

deposed Asian dictators.

Do I have to tell you about the

food? Really? It’s so boring, so

safe, so luxury-pimped nursery

food — as if Nanny had it away with

a plutocrat — it leaves me stone

cold. Coincidentally applicable to

some of what arrives: both dainty

crab-on-toast starter and its plate

glacial, a carvery production line

special. The rest of what I eat is

tepid, maybe a lengthy journey

from subterranean kitchens where

Morlocks toil. Or bussed in.

French onion soup — otherwise

good, finely sliced onions

This once stellar brasserie

ain’t what it used to be

Langan’s Brasserie,

Stratton Street,

London W1;

020 7491 8822,

langansbrasserie.com

Marina O’Loughlin

L

angan’s is back and I’m excited.

I missed its heyday but was

agog at stories of its glamour,

its clientele from the worlds of

art and celebrity, its walls papered

with works by the cream of

contemporary artists. David

Hockney’s portrait of the owners

(Peter Langan, Michael Caine

and Richard Shepherd) illustrated

its frequently nicked menu; one

of these is now in the National

Portrait Gallery, the blue-inked

list of dishes an indelible snapshot

of the time.

And its tales of Irish hellraiser

Peter Langan, notorious and

mercurial in his crumpled cream

Ta b l e Ta l k

Langan’s

Mayfair