Two years ago, I visited Oslo Court while filming a video for social media that unexpectedly reached millions. This time I wondered whether internet fame had changed one of London's maddest restaurants.
About 30 seconds after walking through the door, I was met with: “Hello, my beautiful princess.” These lovely words came from Neil, Oslo Court's irrepressible maître d', who followed it up with: “Your smile has brought me such joy today.” Only at Oslo Court, a quaint, pastel-toned, time warp of a restaurant in north-west London, could something so frivolous sound entirely sincere.
A welcome that feels radical
Neil has been at the door here for decades, and it shows. In a city where diners are so often first asked, “What's the booking under?” Neil's welcome feels almost radical. You're not processed. You're guided in with all the fanfare of a 1960s movie.
The eccentricities didn't finish. They only amped up. It wasn't long before the woman on the neighbouring table asked: “Would you like to see something?” She reached into her handbag and produced a faded photograph of herself and her husband sitting in exactly the same seats 40 years earlier, when smoking indoors was as unremarkable as having meat set fast in jelly. By then, I'd already begun to understand why people not only visit as a novelty, but insist on returning.
Hidden beneath an apartment block
Hidden beneath an anonymous apartment block in St John's Wood, it's the sort of place you'd walk straight past if you didn't know it was there. Then you step inside and discover pink table cloths, floral china, velvet-blue chairs and waiters in black ties gliding between diners to a jazz soundtrack that makes you feel like you've boarded a cruise ship off the coast of Tunisia. One glass of chablis in, I could feel the room gently rocking.
Nothing here appears to have changed since 1982 because nothing here has ever seen the need to. Melba toast arrives with curls of butter; crudités come with an unapologetically garlicky dip. Before my starter, four beautifully cooked queenie scallops appeared. I wondered whether I'd somehow been identified, then noticed all the other tables received exactly the same surprise. Generosity, it turns out, is simply how the place does business.
The menu refuses to chase fashion
The menu is equally reassuring in its refusal to chase fashion. Melon balls with Parma ham still feature proudly — but I chose the lobster bisque. Ladled theatrically from a tureen until my bowl was almost overflowing, it was rich, deeply savoury and packed with enough lobster to question the restaurant's margins. Then came duck, which is where the kitchen stumbled. The skin was glorious: crisp, richly flavoured and exactly what you'd hope for from such a fatty bird. But the meat beneath had clearly been in the oven a little too long. The cherry sauce did its best to rescue proceedings, but there was no disguising that this was the weakest course of the meal.
Meanwhile, yet another waiter appeared carrying an endless stream of sides. Carrots. Green beans. Potato latkes. Cauliflower cheese. Sautéed potatoes. At one point I found myself asking them to stop bringing food, which is laughable. I guess this is Oslo Court: not perfect, but generous. Dessert reinforced the point. The tarte Tatin bore little resemblance to the neat French classic. It looked as though somebody's talented grandmother had mistaken “dessert for one” for “dessert for the entire family”. The pastry could have been crisper, but the apples were deeply caramelised, balancing sweetness with just enough sharpness.
Timeless loyalty
In a London restaurant scene obsessed with novelty, reinvention and the next big thing, Oslo Court has quietly spent decades pursuing something far simpler: making people feel genuinely looked after. Sure, the food isn't flawless, but as the woman on the next table proved, you don't build timeless loyalty with perfect duck. She had been visiting every week since the age of 16. And that's what I found myself thinking about on the journey home.
