Telephone: 020 7722 8795
Address: Charlbert Street, London NW8
You could pass by without even knowing it was there, which probably explains why a lot of things - design trends, food fashions, the very passage of time - have also done so. 'There is no passing trade here,' says Tony Sanchez, the owner of Oslo Court, with uncommon pride. Most restaurateurs would despair at the fact; for Tony it is a badge of honour. 'People come to us through word of mouth or simply because they have always come here.' His customers know what those walking by on the street do not: that housed on the ground floor of this brooding, residential mansion block in London's St John's Wood from which it takes its name is a restaurant where they do things the old way. Oslo Court is, quite simply, a slice of 1970s London, caught in its own intoxicating cultural aspic.
The first clue is the decor: salmon pink walls, beautifully laundered pink napery, enough pink-patterned curtain to wrap a battleship. It is said that when the late Barbara Cartland ate here she all but disappeared into the decor, like a leopard hiding in African scrub. But the real signifier is, of course, the menu. At Oslo Court you can still order grapefruit grilled with brown sugar as a starter. Here they still serve seafood with cream and brandy sauces. At Oslo Court they serve a lot of things with cream and brandy sauces. They still do crisp roast duck with orange sauce, steak Diane flambÀ, even veal schnitzel Holstein (with fried egg, anchovies and capers). Then there is a dessert trolley of the sort you probably thought went out of production with the half-timbered Morris Minor. It's stacked with profiteroles and strawberry tarts, artery-bursting mille feuille, crÀme caramels, cheesecake and trifle.
'We do not change the food here,' Tony says, 'because the customers do not like change.'
Today it is those customers, some of whom actually live in the block, who are the keepers of its history. They are, for the most part, 'In their mid-fifties and up'. There are some who still remember it from the dark days of the Second World War when it was a drinking club - already called Oslo Court - frequented by Norwegian freedom fighters taking refuge in London. It went through a number of incarnations after that until being taken over, in the early Seventies, by a Yugoslav-Welsh couple who reopened it as a restaurant and established its first reputation.
Eventually, after a decade, they sold up to an Italian restaurateur who simply couldn't cut it. 'The first time I ate here in the early Eighties it was dead,' Tony says. 'The guy, he says the customers don't like me. And the food? It was terrible.' Tony Sanchez was the man to turn it around. He was born and brought up in Galicia, northern Spain and, after training as a chef in Geneva, came to London in the early Seventies to escape military service back home. In those days he was cooking in London clubs like the Valbonne, frequented by the last gasp of the jet set.
Oslo Court's owner offered to sell and, along with his brother Jose, he decided to give it a go. 'It needed a proper menu,' he says. 'Nothing fantastic. Just traditional French food.' They kept just one dish from the old menu, Crab À la Rochelle. In its richness, it could stand as an emblem for the whole Oslo Court kitchen: white crab meat and mushrooms, in a rich cream-based sauce, wrapped in a purse of puff pastry with a sweet brandy sauce on the side. Tony also employed traditional waiters to go with those dishes, right down to the dinner jackets, bow ties and mellifluous accents. Some have now been there for three decades. They first built their business by establishing a special deal Sunday lunch. It was quickly a massive hit, with customers coming in at lunchtime and staying until 7pm. After three years they closed on Sundays and the huge trade moved to Saturdays. Tony shows me the reservations book. Every Saturday throughout the year is already booked out. At the back are letters and faxes from regular customers, sent early in January, listing every booking they want for the next 12 months - often as many as two or three a month. It only takes a cursory glance at the surnames to recognise the greatest common denominator. 'For me and my brother it was marvellous to find the Jewish community,' Tony says. 'In London in the Seventies it seemed nobody liked to eat. They only want to drink. I'm not hungry, they say. Bring me a drink. Then we come here, the bar bills go down but they want the food. They love their food.'
The menu is tailored very subtly to that clientele. Latkes are on the menu. There are no pork dishes as a main course and the fish soup is made without shellfish. (Although these really are only the most minor of touches, tailored to the most casually observant Jews; there is still a lot of shellfish and milk mixed with meat on the list, both of which are distinctly unkosher.) 'Most people who come here know what they are going to have before they even arrive,' Tony says, 'they don't want to look at the menu, even.'
As to that menu, it is really only a statement of intent. As well as the 15 starters and the 30 main courses, there are a whole bunch of specials that are never listed but always there.
On the day these photographs were taken, Flo Ferguson, a customer in her eighties who has been eating here for decades, telephoned to say she had to cancel her booking. Her friend could not come so she wouldn't either. Tony told her to come anyway. He would have lunch with her instead. 'With Tony and his family it's just like coming home,' she says simply.
Today, Tony no longer cooks. The kitchen is run by his brother, with his wife and sister-in-law taking it in turns to do pastry. Two of his daughters do front of house. 'Because it is a family business we can keep costs down,' he says. As a result the lunch menu costs £23.50 for three courses, which is perfectly judged for those watching their pensions. What's more they know exactly what they are going to get for their money, which is just the way they like it.
