Andrew Edmunds

When Andrew Edmunds died last September, almost all writers covering the news mentioned, with a misty-eyed fondness, his ties to the increasingly arcane concept of ‘old Soho’.

For anyone whose knowledge of the area is strictly contemporary, it’s difficult to picture Soho as something other than a commercialised destination heavily skewed towards shopping and tourism. In stark contrast, historical accounts, in which property-hogging sleaze-peddler Paul Raymond features prominently, paint Soho as an edgy, grubby place of vice and debauchery. The last decades of the 20th century, notable in this context for their restrictive licensing laws, saw Soho flourish as a host of late-night booze, drugs, sex, comedy and music. Property in the W1 postcode was kept relatively cheap by Soho’s seedy reputation and the area had bohemian appeal as a result.

The stunted prices of the ‘80s enabled Andrew Edmunds to acquire the buildings on Lexington Street that would become home to his art dealership, members’ club and eponymous restaurant. As Pete Clark wrote in an article entitled “The slow death of Soho” in 2014, ‘the increasingly rapacious demands of landlords’ are today what dictate Soho’s ‘predictable nature’. It seems implausible that a restaurant such as Andrew Edmunds could ever open or survive if its owner were beholden to the greed of a typical professional landlord.

The restaurant was one of the first I visited when I moved south and was unlike any I’d been to before. It felt buzzy and authentic but most of all it seemed effortlessly, unpretentiously sophisticated. The ambiance and style conformed to my naïve preconceptions of what eating out in London was like. People sat tightly together and the volume of conversation fluctuated between convivial and raucous. The food was simple but the ingredients were expertly chosen, cooked and combined.

Happily, little has changed. The dining room is still cramped and intimate; the menu remains handwritten and photocopied each day; there’s the same humble furniture, Dickensian candlelight and fresh flowers on tables.

The service is criticised for inconsistency but my experience suggests it might be the best in London. Hospitality is noticeably worse for the talent-draining effects of Brexit and Covid, which makes it even more remarkable to experience the easy warmth of the staff at Andrew Edmunds. There are no stiff, obsequious ‘sirs’ or overfamiliar ‘what are we drinking, guys?’, just friendly people acting naturally. Eating here is not a status symbol, nor does it have much influencer cachet, and it’s easy to imagine that the absence of certain clientele helps the waiting staff maintain their sanity.

Generous servings of bread, olives and smoked almonds speak of pleasure not profit margins, and the same is true of the wine list. Assembled and priced by Edmunds himself, the list features an impressive selection of French wine, as well as picks from the rest of the world, at renowned good value. Some wines were bought en primeur and cellared by the owner; combine this with a legendary approach to markup, which was, apparently, ‘add a bit on’ to what was originally paid, and you have a wine list consisting of tempting prices and vintages. We order a favourite, the 2018 Art Series Shiraz from Australian producer Leeuwin, for £49 – it costs around £35 to buy online. The level to which this impresses you will depend on how familiar you are with the average markup on wine in restaurants.

The wine list and the atmosphere, rather than the food, are considered the foundations of the restaurant’s reputation but what comes from the kitchen is also to be admired. Bistro-style dishes that mix British and European influences are, in truth, similar to those raved about at Noble Rot and Café Cecilia. While they might not always be ultra-refined or complex, they invariably represent sound, classic ideas and are executed reliably.

Starters include a silky cauliflower soup garnished with a black olive tapenade, and a comforting, warm confit duck leg with chicory, cornichons and vinegary dressing for contrast.

The pork chop seems like a cut from a bygone era and more importantly, often appears on plates as the sort of rubbery, impermeable object you’d be asked to retrieve from the floor of the deep end in a swimming exam. Thankfully, the ones served here have patches of Maillard scorch on the outside and tender innards. Jerusalem artichokes are one of eating’s great seasonal treats and accompany the pork, along with black cabbage and aioli. In other news, a wedge of brill and a charred chunk of broccoli arrive lightly daubed with salsa verde. It’s all decidedly uncomplicated but all a pleasure.

Describing the style at Andrew Edmunds as exceptionally high-quality home-cooking is intended as a compliment and is truest of the puddings. The tart is ultimately the king of the desserts and so we order both on offer. The first is custard - there isn’t much left so we’re allowed the final slice for free - with a mound of poached rhubarb as support. The other is a Bakewell tart with the jam switched for a marmalade as sharp as marmalade ought to be. We take swigs of Jurançon while fencing with spoons for each mouthful of it. Not a day has since gone by that any of us forget that Bakewell tart.

The restaurant and its food are not trendy, ostentatious or avant-garde but they are timeless. Andrew Edmunds managed to create a place that proves how fundamental atmosphere and experience are to enjoying a meal, and there is much to be enjoyed at every stage of a visit here.

His sad absence raises two questions. The first is for how much longer the restaurant will remain open without his commitment and stewardship. Amongst increasing wages, energy prices and food costs, any new custodian could conceivably tire of operating an enterprise that can't deliver huge returns.

The second, broader question, is one that reflects how unusual it is to find an independent restaurant like Andrew Edmunds; one operating without a focus on profit and expansion. Must a restaurant like this be the preserve of the bon vivant who is fortunate enough to run it as a passion project?

If the economy and the ‘market dynamics’ we have created mean the answer is yes, then let us prepare for an increasingly homogenous set of places to eat, all of which will be more concerned with taking our money than giving us a good time. Andrew Edmunds stands as a glorious legacy and tribute to its founder. It will be lamentable if this kind of restaurant becomes not just ‘old Soho’ but ancient history too.