A CITY OF CLOSED DOORS
COMMENT
Illustrations by Zoë Barker
“Spring’s themes of rebirth, renewal and resurrection feel especially present across London’s dining scene, but why is endlessly reviving or preserving fallen restaurant concepts apparently in vogue?” Jimi Famurewa
he knew and liked.” Maison Francois’s power- breakfast appeal stems from François himself. Graydon Carter still oversees the table plan at the Waverly Inn in New York each night. “This is something that chains and private equity-backed places just can’t do,” says Choe. One thinks of Oisín Rogers, the capital’s favourite landlord, whose inner-sanctum Green Room at The Devonshire is reserved for friends and those he finds interesting. Or of Martin Kucz- marski of The Dover, Dover Street Counter and Martino’s, whose personal taste and bonhomie vibrate off those burlwood walls. Kuczmarski was the chief operating officer of Soho House group before he struck out on his own. “When I left, everyone said, ‘Are you going to do a members club?’”he says.“AndIsaid, ‘No way. Not now.’” Instead, he says, he has simply been careful to “patiently curate the people in the room”. Which means “we want to hold tables for people who are kind to fellow guests, kind to members of staff. People who have style in how they dress, but also in their personal behaviour.” As the definition of a club is blurring, the bound- aries of clubland itself are changing too. “It’s no secret that there has been an exodus of ultra-high- net-worths from central London,” says Jamie Car- ing, the private club consultant who last year helped launch Lighthouse Social, a new members club installed on the banks of the Thames in Fulham. “Which means there’s been a subtle shift to local neighbourhood clubs instead.” (Or at least to the neighbourhoods where those same UHNWIs live anyway; this is not a trend extending beyond post- codes with a W.) Beyond Lighthouse Social and The Roof Gar- dens, the west London club offering expands this spring with Celeste, the Notting Hill outpost of Maison Estelle, and Maslow’s in Kensington. Until recently, the received wisdom was that members clubs, by their hub-like definition, needed cen- trality to really work – a critical mass of members and buzz that could only happen in the thick of things. But no longer. “Psychologically, perhaps that started in the pandemic,” Caring says, “when people really started to celebrate where they lived more.” Notting Hill, perhaps unsurprisingly, has seen the biggest trans- formation in this way, with The Fat Badger, above Canteen on the Golborne Road, an interesting case in point. The venue is not a members club, but its opera- tions are marked by a certain clubby discretion: an inconspicuous side-street entrance beneath a subtle, wordless sign; an entry protocol initially based on a coveted Whatsapp number distributed to friends of the team during its soft launch. The result of this approach is striking – a mood that careens between private party, jolly speakeasy, attic pub and rollicking jazz bar depending on when you happen to drop in. But it also spurs demand. Though not calculated or cynical, there’s a useful scarcity value at play.
Jamie’s Italian by James Verity
I f you’re looking for a coldly objective take on the unexpected return of Jamie’s Italian – or perhaps even a few pointed jibes aimed at the bish-bash-boshing, Toploader-soundtracked hor- ror of the early- 2000 s food scene – then I’m not your man. It’s not just that I belong to the specific generational and cultural cohort whose serious interest in food neatly coincides with the emer- gence of the erstwhile Naked Chef. It’s not even that I’m professionally compromised by the fact that, in a slightly mind-frying twist, I now know Oliver a bit and like him a lot. It is, in truth, mostly down to one very simple, not especially cool fact: I really, really loved Jamie’s Italian. I loved the clamorous, turbo-rustic bustle of its market square-style design, the puppyish exuber- ance of its menu writing (“World’s best olives on ice!”) and the genuinely brilliant kids dishes that were a particular boon for befuddled new parents in the early 2010 s. I loved the mad, money-spraying profligacy of its expensive custom Thomas Crapper toilets (which endure, like flushable headstones, in the basement of The Devonshire). I even loved the bit when a chirpy “Hey guys” server would have to awkwardly construct a “prosciutto plank” from a sal- vaged piece of wood and a pair of giant tomato tins. And yet I am also not so Jamie-pilled that I hav- en’t asked myself why. Why has an enterprise like Jamie’s Italian, newly wedged between a row of tourist-bait businesses near Leicester Square, been brought back at this precise moment? And why, more generally, is endlessly reviving or preserving fallen restaurant concepts seemingly in vogue? The zombie corpse of TGI Fridays keeps getting
reanimated, and Byron has been acquired by a gen Z entrepreneur looking, among other things, to reboot it in Dubai. Le Caprice (which already exists in suave, sensitively reimagined form as Jeremy King’s Arlington) is poised to return as part of the blockbusting dining offering at The Chancery Rosewood hotel. At the other end of the scale, Lee and Kate Tiernan’s seminal FKABAM shrugged off the mortal coil of a traditional restaurant for a period in cold storage, which will be followed by a yet-to-be-determined evolution of the concept. Everywhere you look across London’s dining scene, there is rebirth, renewal and resurrection. The most obvious factor behind this move- ment relates to simple economics. Name recogni- tion and customer affection – a little like my ardour for Jamie’s Italian and, for that matter, early Byron – is a potent, rightly prized commodity; the kind of deep emotional connection that, like a coveted piece of Hollywood IP, has both perceived cultural value and ever-tantalising financial potential. Separately, at an especially vibe-forward moment for hospitality, exhumed restaurant brands can evoke a certain mood and approach far better than the involvement of a chef or restaurateur who may or may not still be attached to the project (see Polpo, Temper, Bubala and any number of other entities that have endured after the departure of a central found- ing partner). A new Richard Caring spot in Mayfair prompts a modicum of excitement and intrigue. Le Caprice 2 . 0 conjures a specifically alluring mode of monochromatic 1990 s glamour, bang-bang-chick- en-fuelled power lunches, and the chance of spotting Kate Moss and Mick Jagger at a neighbouring table.
This calculated nostalgia-tapping works both ways. Part of the justification for reviving a shuttered busi- ness (as with Racine, the adored Knightsbridge brasserie restored by Henry Harris as a peerless Far- ringdon bouchon in 2022 ) is the chance to provide a second act to a venture that closed before its time. But how do we distinguish between the concepts that still have something to offer and those that have naturally aged out of relevance? Where is the line between alluringly retro and naffly old-fashioned? Will FKABAM’s pulverising nose-to-tail flavours and irreverent flourishes be better suited to some unglimpsed future restaurant era? These questions, alongside the intrigue factor, are what make restau- rant revivals such an irresistible roll of the dice. My hunch is that the reboots that prosper will not be able to recapture the specific glories of old, even if there is profitability and a rollout of new outposts. That there will not be the same lightning-in-a-bottle mix of critical and commercial success once enjoyed by the likes of Jamie’s Italian. Back then is not right now. Today’s ascendent mode of restaurant nostalgia – the Scorsese-style glamour of Carbone, say, or the grand mid-century sparkle of Martino’s – is primarily about timeless, fantastical interpretations of bygone eras that the vast majority of diners won’t actually remember. But the revivals will keep coming. And I will, of course, be making my way down to a certain olive oil-drizzled blast from the past near Leicester Square. Sceptical. Trepidatious. But hoping against hope that, even if just for a couple of hours, I can still party like it’s 2009 .
Such Whatsapp accounts bridge the gap between the modern moment and the late 20 th century. Prized private booking numbers are now used for many high-profile restaurants – like Dorian, also in Notting Hill – often with the caveat that, unless you’re a saved or known number yourself, you may be unlikely to find a booking or even get a response. If Patrick Bateman was hunting an 8 . 30 pm “res” today, he’d do it via Whatsapp. Certain restaura- teurs even hand out physical black cards to guests they wish to have the number. The posting of these on social media has become something of a sub- tle status play. But Kuczmarski makes a good case for fostering a sense of familiarity. His launches are deliberately
executed without active PR or gimmicks. He just opens, quietly, and then tells a few people about it. There is a handwritten reservations book. There “may or may not be” a secret Whatsapp number, he jokes. His first days at Martino’s were filled with friends and old colleagues. The Dover was a word-of-mouth hit with the whispered hype of a secret society. You might walk past Dover Street Counter without even noticing it. But the atmos- phere inside is as clubbable as it gets. Jay Rayner praised its “delicious, thrumming vibe”. Grace Dent purred over Martino’s “conviviality” and its “pure, glamorous, fragrant escapism”. “Nice people,” Kuczmarski concludes. “That’s the secret ingredient that really makes you feel good.”
BROADSHEET LONDON
SPRING 26
28
29
Made with FlippingBook Digital Proposal Creator