btl 003: Andrew Edmunds, w1
People often describe Andrew Edmunds as ‘a bastion of old Soho’, or something along those lines. A badge of honour like that, however well intentioned by its bestowers, can sometimes be a bit of a curse. It can lead you into complacency, or even worse, becoming boring. Not here. Andrew Edmunds is as exciting as it has ever been, a manifestation of its late namesake: His love of good food, of good wine, and of his family — literally, in the case of his children Xanthe, Seraphina, and Milo — and figuratively, in the case of his staff.
The restaurant began with the print shop next door, Seraphina tells us. We’re sitting in the dining room having coffee before lunch service begins. Andrew was an art dealer, but was offered the chance to buy out the restaurant’s lease by the then owner (an affiliate of a ‘gangster’, apparently). ‘Soho was super dodgy. We couldn’t get insurance,’ she recalls. ‘It was just a wine bar with some food…the kitchen was downstairs and barely had any ventilation, so your coats would all smell like grease at the end of the night.’
Sitting next to her is Melissa, the manager, who’s been here since 1994. She arrived as a waitress, pregnant with her daughter, who now works at the restaurant. We’re later joined by Araldo, the head chef, who cut his teeth at St JOHN before joining Andrew Edmunds eight years ago. Almost nothing about this place has changed in the last forty years — save for the menu, which is altered every service. Rather than slipping into the trap of trotting out familiar staples, the cooking here feels fresh, crafty — ‘nobody gets bored,' Araldo says. That comes from Andrew, ever committed to ‘the principles of seasonality, good husbandry, good sourcing’.
We began with one of Andrew’s favourites: Carrot and chestnut soup, topped with crispy fried sage. Then smoked ox tongue, served with pickled cucumbers, reminiscent of (in the very best way) a damn good hot dog. Another Andrew Edmunds mainstay, pork chop, was served today with roasted carrots and aioli. Cod, with cauliflower, cabbage and an anchoïade, a Provençal anchovy sauce (this was delicious). Rice pudding with poached quince finished the meal (and us) off. The food here is excellent. Big flavours, always well balanced, rooted in great produce and a classically British approach — complemented by an extensive (and remarkably reasonable) wine list. It’s the kind of cooking we love.
Sometimes, a beautiful restaurant can be an indicator of lacklustre food. Thankfully, that’s not the case at Andrew Edmunds. The cooking here is excellent, with well constructed dishes showcasing resourcefulness and a surprisingly contemporary edge, but never losing the charm that makes this place special. David Eyre’s mantra when he founded The Eagle (his pioneering pub-cum-dining room in Clerkenwell) was ‘big flavours, rough edges’, and that’s very much the kind of cooking that’s going on here. You’re not going to find molecular gastronomy, and that’s exactly how it should be.
Picking a standout dish was genuinely difficult — everything we ate was great — but we landed on the ox tongue, which was smoked and served with fluorescent pickled cucumbers. When we eat somewhere, we ask the owners and chefs to order for us — Andrew was a fan of his offal, we’re told, so we had to get some. The meat tasted, in the very best way, like a damn good hot dog. Smokey and salty and with just enough bite to it to make for a satisfying dish all on its own — but tender enough to wonderfully contrast the tart snap of the pickled cucumber. This was an exercise in simplicity, in provenance and technique and theoretical know-how. It was really excellent. If you go and there’s ox tongue on the menu, order it.
Andrew Edmunds has always been a local haunt. ‘In the early days, it was pretty much all regulars’, their longtime manager Melissa tells us. She reckons that was mostly to do with the fact that the street lamps at the top end of Lexington St, where the restaurant has been for its entire existence, never worked. ‘This was back when Soho was dodgy, you’d look up from Brewer Street and you just wouldn’t go down there.’
We ask how the neighbourhood has changed. ‘It’s got very SoHo, New York, rather than Soho, London,” says Seraphina, Andrew’s daughter. We’re having coffee in the restaurant before lunch service. ‘It’s all about money now.’ Melissa agrees: ‘everything feels very branded.’ Andrew Edmunds is a restaurant that eschews that, in the extreme. Despite being a landmark by this point, there’s no real signage outside the restaurant itself, save for the menu next to the front door. When you eat here, you still get that rush of excitement that you’re in on something secret. Maybe that’s why people come back again, and again, and again. ‘We’ve got customers now who’ve been coming here since they were in their early 20s.’
That same loyalty seems to have found the staff, too. ‘We have a frustratingly slow turnover of kitchen staff here,’ Melissa jokes. She began here in 1994. She’d recently dropped out of university and was looking for a job in catering — ‘it was the only thing I knew how to do,’ she says. ‘I think I did a day in a sandwich shop. That was a mistake.’ She found her way to Andrew Edmunds, and after a stint as a waitress (while pregnant with her daughter), returned in 1996 to manage the restaurant. She’s remained ever since.
Araldo, the head chef, was born in Italy, but fell in love with British food after moving here in 1999. Andrew’s influence is still felt in the food, he says. ‘He ate here every day.’ The food here is at its core, a reflection of his taste. He had very good taste, clearly.
Seraphina had never intended on being a restauranteur. She’s actually a footwear designer, she tells us, which she still does alongside her duties at Andrew Edmunds. But the reason she came back is obvious. The reverence everyone in the building clearly feels for him is striking. ‘His spirit lives on here, absolutely,’ Melissa says. Long may that continue.
‘We’d come in for Sunday lunch with our mother,’ says Seraphina. ‘I remember drawing all over the table cloths, which you can still do if you want to’. We’ll be sure to remember our crayons when we come back.’