The implausibility of Oslo Court might be the most conspicuous of its charms. It sits at the bottom of a late-thirties, Robert Atkinson-designed apartment block opposite Regent’s Park. Cruel to wonder if Atkinson was going through a rough patch, but the block is jutting, angular, all metal-framed windows and right angles. To get to the dining room? Porters smile knowingly to those with eyes clouded by confusion, nodding to a door that takes you not to a restaurant, but a cloakroom. Coats are taken, waiters are assigned. The cloakroom is a wardrobe, the restaurant a kind of Narnia. Narnia, a fantasy land, that world of make-believe.
Oslo Court is exactly this, though whether entirely by design is uncertain. Change is a constant; those that do not move with it become artefacts, curios, relics. Oslo Court is the Seventies set in salt and confited – or perhaps preserved in aspic. No matter that Galician brothers Tony and José Sanchez bought it in 1982 (before them were a Polish-Welsh couple. Before them belly dancers and heavy drinking. Before that was the war). It is a room of sunburn pink and blazer blue. Blue are the chairs and the carpets; pink is the linen, the candle wax, the walls, the painted roses that decorate the plates, plenty of sauces. It is perhaps the only restaurant in the world Barbara Cartland might have been camouflaged within. A lot of those who come here still know who Barbara Cartland was.
Service is not pink or blue, though. Service, like the salt cellars, is silver. Few places offer this now; it is an experience for the diner and shows expertise among the staff. It offers novelty — the parade of cutlery involved is a spectacle in itself — which soon gives way to a sense of occasion. You come here to be fed and watered, sure, but also to be waited on hand and foot by people in dinner jackets and bow ties. You come to luxuriate.
And it is food to luxuriate with, after all. Not up-to-speed food, or even food to photograph (mobile phones are not banned but perhaps should be). Here is a menu — leather-bound, gilt-printed, and rarely with prices for female diners — that has not glimpsed past the mid-eighties. Or perhaps it did, sighed wearily to itself, and resolved only to look backwards. It is the British ideal of French-style cooking, not just circa 1977 but perhaps 1937. What was, until RyanAir started flying, sometimes called ‘continental cuisine’. Eating here feels like being warmly dressed on a crisp winter morning. Melba toast arrives at every table in a smart napkin pocket with crudités and butter in curls. It might be lobster bisque or king scallops with a scarf of bacon. It could be prawns in tall, iced glass towers, or snails burrowed in garlic and parsley. Perhaps it’s Steak Diane – not done tableside but arriving in an overcoat of Cognac, mustard and peppercorn. Happily, brandy seems to make a number of courses. There is an excellent beef Wellington; duck with crisped skin and either an orange or apple sauce (but is best with cherry) and Weiner Holstein topped with a fried egg, anchovies and capers. What else? Oh, have the foie gras that comes with an impressively thick and rich port reduction and don’t miss the Dover sole (the skate wing is often a hit, too). Melon and Parma ham may be wanted for those going full Mike Leigh. Otherwise, there is a Chicken Princess Oslo Court, which seems fitting. It seems doubtful, after all, that it can be ordered elsewhere. Puddings you can imagine for yourself — lemon meringue pie, icing sugared everything, you understand — though sadly now, not from the trolley as it once was. A boy can dream.
Portions are enormous in size – and always with terrific sautéed and roast potatoes and what really is a medley of vegetables. The vegetables need work; specifically less time in the pan. Other bits need work, too. I now stick to escargots and Diane religiously and am rarely let down; other explorations have been less rewarding. It does not matter. This is a restaurant that is always full and cheerful — the almost absent mark-up on the wine may help, plus the set price of £55 for three courses. It is not as full of oldies as once it was, and minor celebrity sightings or a round of Happy Birthday for someone hitting a century are not unheard of. But look closer, and many of the tables are cross-generational – families making memories, or couples on dates, one of them an old hand and the other being introduced to the place. Oslo Court is not a restaurant boasting a formula others would adopt. Perhaps that is why it has stayed a one-off. Which must be why it is utterly adored by those who go. Not so implausible after all
