A few things I didn't know and some I do about establishments I frequent in Soho
Troys, Hanway street: Full name 'Helen of Troys'. Used to be run by Helen, (funnily enough) who's now dead and was 'a Soho character in the old sense of the word: she looked after those she liked, and kicked the rest down the stairs'. Now run by someone called Charlie. The book (actually this particular entry was written by Miranda Sawyer which explains a lot. I hope I never see her in there though) claims you'll have to 'sweet-talk' to get in, which we all know is codswallop (as if anyone would be sober enough by that time to be charming and persuasive. Well, I wouldn't be anyway). Sawyer says 'you'll find a place where crying is as expected as laughing and no one judges either'. I would add: and you meet the oddest people at 3am. And some of those are people you know.
Bar Italia, Frith street: John Logie Baird transmitted the first television pictures from an upstairs room of the cafe. I would add: The sandwiches are overpriced and I only go there if I happen to be out at 6am and am hungry. They now transmit crap European pop videos with the sound turned off (mercifully).
Maison Bertaux, Greek street: The oldest French Patisserie in London (founded 1871), run by an eccentric french actress, Michele Wade, who apparently performs a tableau vivante every 14th July of the French Revolution in te street outside 'complete with guillotine, tricolores and a glimpse of carefully arranged nipple'. I can't say I've ever seen this occurring, but I do know that Maison Bertaux's Christmas parties are a darn sight better than the Foyles ones, and usually on the same night, so friends of mine used to crash them - they were on friendly terms with Michele. I joined them one Christmas, and much revelry was had dancing drunkenly to Serge Gainsbourg et al.
Kettners, Romilly street: Oscar Wilde's favourite haunt, founded in 1868 by Napoleon III's chef. The book suggests you pop in for a glass of champagne. I don't know about that, but I have been in for a bottle of wine or two, and they give you free nuts and olives which is always good. Someone's usually tinkling away on the old joanna and all. Once the pianist let my friend display her skills at the ivories.
The French House, Dean Street: Where General de Gaulle, leader of the Free French ate and drank with his juniors. Personally, never been to the restaurant bit but the pub's lovely, albeit tiny and almost impossible to get a seat unless you arrive in the daytime. Full of aging luvvies. Has the best cider - cidre du breton - which is not only drinkable but *gasp* tastes great and gets you really pissed and is cheap as chips.
From City Secrets: London ed. Robert Kahn.
I should write one of them guide books, clearly. No sarky comments about them all being pubs or cafes please.
Bar Italia, Frith street: John Logie Baird transmitted the first television pictures from an upstairs room of the cafe. I would add: The sandwiches are overpriced and I only go there if I happen to be out at 6am and am hungry. They now transmit crap European pop videos with the sound turned off (mercifully).
Maison Bertaux, Greek street: The oldest French Patisserie in London (founded 1871), run by an eccentric french actress, Michele Wade, who apparently performs a tableau vivante every 14th July of the French Revolution in te street outside 'complete with guillotine, tricolores and a glimpse of carefully arranged nipple'. I can't say I've ever seen this occurring, but I do know that Maison Bertaux's Christmas parties are a darn sight better than the Foyles ones, and usually on the same night, so friends of mine used to crash them - they were on friendly terms with Michele. I joined them one Christmas, and much revelry was had dancing drunkenly to Serge Gainsbourg et al.
Kettners, Romilly street: Oscar Wilde's favourite haunt, founded in 1868 by Napoleon III's chef. The book suggests you pop in for a glass of champagne. I don't know about that, but I have been in for a bottle of wine or two, and they give you free nuts and olives which is always good. Someone's usually tinkling away on the old joanna and all. Once the pianist let my friend display her skills at the ivories.
The French House, Dean Street: Where General de Gaulle, leader of the Free French ate and drank with his juniors. Personally, never been to the restaurant bit but the pub's lovely, albeit tiny and almost impossible to get a seat unless you arrive in the daytime. Full of aging luvvies. Has the best cider - cidre du breton - which is not only drinkable but *gasp* tastes great and gets you really pissed and is cheap as chips.
From City Secrets: London ed. Robert Kahn.
I should write one of them guide books, clearly. No sarky comments about them all being pubs or cafes please.