Andrew Edmunds: A modern European affair via 18th century townhouse

Once through the battered, bruise-coloured door of the early 18th- century terrace house you can breathe a sigh of relief: Soho’s soul remains untrammelled. Opened in 1986 by the eponymous print dealer whose shop trades next door, the venue was quickly embraced as London’s riposte to a Parisian bistro. As happens in such places, a clientele of regulars clubbily coalesced. But make a booking and “membership” is granted by your name scribbled on the white paper tablecloth — next to a candle in a bottle. Nothing much has changed in the past 30-odd years. Cooking keeps pace with the evolving way we like to eat but is never egregiously clever-clogs. The drinks list, plus extra bottles on the blackboard, continues to delight and demand exploration. There isn’t a better description than that by Bruce Yardley in my Evening Standard restaurant guide of 1996: “a bizarre assortment which looks as if picked up at auction following the death of a rich crank, with surprisingly grand bottles available at bargain prices”. And that’s still true.