Don't take your mistress to Foxtrot Oscar

Foxtrot Oscar was once at the epicentre of the Sloane Ranger world and attracted dissolute marquesses and raffish hacks like moths to a flame. I broke bread there once with Nigel Dempster: I remember his stories in vivid detail but can’t recall what we ate. But food was never Foxtrot Oscar’s raison d’être. You went to hang out and gossip, or fall off a barstool like Elizabeth Taylor once did. Today you can’t avoid talking about the food: the venue has been taken over by Gordon Ramsay.

So what’s the restaurant like? Unrecognisable. The décor is cold and impersonal and it has a wipe-clean concept that extends to the tables, walls, floors and menu. Out goes shabby chic and in come framed photographs of French châteaux. It’s like being in an international hotel. You could be anywhere in the world. Except nobody in the world in their right mind would choose the colour scheme. The brown and turquoise stripes resemble a sub-Paul Smith shirt. And I couldn’t help noticing the wall next to me was smeared with grease stains and what appeared to be blood. Had Gordon been cutting up rough again? The only link with the past is Old Etonian Michael Proudlock, who founded the restaurant in 1980 and has stayed on as maître d’. But not even his natty colourful jumpers can imbue the place with warmth. Those who come in search of nostalgia may be disappointed.

Thank goodness the food is better than the décor. It’s posh pub grub. The brown rolls (no white bread, note) add to the cod-rustic atmosphere. Most starters are ready to go (pâtés, potted shrimps, and soups). We chose something more challenging: I had ‘crab cakes with mayonnaise’. Cakes? Only one turned up. Surely a breach of the Trade Descriptions Act? My wife’s steak tartare was more like burger relish.

The main courses were pricey. My Hereford-shire ribeye steak with snail butter came with a sprig of parsley, but one had to pay extra for a side dish of chips. £18 seemed a bit steep, especially as the steak was characterless. The whole lemon sole was well cooked, if very buttery, and the accompanying shrimps were fresh. But the cabbage was tepid. The puddings weren’t much better. The lemon meringue had a layer of undercooked pastry. I had wine by the glass but my second glass of Pinot Noir was so oxidised I didn’t have the heart to send it back. Maybe we came on an off night, but this felt like assembly-line cooking. Gordon Ramsay is said to be considering rolling out the brand. Good luck to him. There’s no passion or imagination in the kitchen, the room is characterless, and the waiters, professional as they are, seem to be here under sufferance. It wouldn’t surprise me if they’re sent from other parts of his over-stretched empire as a punishment.

Tap water was provided on request, and while they didn’t leave a jug on the table, they were quite attentive about refilling our glasses. ‘This is not the sort of restaurant you take your mistress to,’ advised my wife. ‘This is the restaurant you go to with your wife after you’ve taken your mistress to Gordon Ramsay next door.’ Another reason for not taking your mistress is that the tables are so close together you have to be wary of eavesdroppers.

One couple’s exchange we overheard summed up the evening. ‘I didn’t know this was a Gordon Ramsay restaurant?’ said the man in astonishment. ‘Yes, it’s Gordon Ramsay without the frills,’ replied his partner. There are no frills and precious few thrills. Foxtrot Oscar has become a call sign for f*** off. How appropriate: the restaurant is sandwiched between a Tesco Express and a shop with an empty bath in the window. Gordon Ramsay would seem to have thrown the Foxtrot Oscar baby out with the bathwater.

Foxtrot Oscar
Royal Hospital Road, London, SW3 4HN