Depending on who you ask, Otto's French Restaurant is either a tragic, gaudily decorated shrine to a bygone age or an idiosyncratic bastion of fine-dining traditions, worthy of actual pilgrimage. The people in the latter category are correct. I now count myself among their number.
Despite the jolly decor, there’s something very ‘gothic fiction’ about Otto Albert Tepasse’s gaff on the Gray’s Inn Road. Like you’ve been invited into the home of an enigmatic, semi-mythic Danubian count. The man’s as convivial as they come, an upright, tidy presence who not only remembered my dining partner from a visit years previous, but also the name of her dad. Behind the geniality however, there is a touching seriousness. Otto worships, in a completely unironic way, at the tricolore altar of gastronomie francaise. When it comes to service his restaurant is as polished and posh as they come. Even if you are next door to a dry cleaners.
Otto is also famous for bringing (unasked, one presumes) the centuries-old Breton tradition of ‘duck press’ to London. To whit: give the restaurant adequate notice and Otto will cheerfully crush the carcass of a quacker at your table in an antique vice, cook down the results, and serve it as a sauce. As far as mid-meal theatre goes, it makes Salt Bae’s crumbly hijinks look feeble.
Chefs have spoken to me in hushed, reverential tones about Otto’s. Taste the food and you’ll understand why. The asparagus, glowing white buttery batons, were meatier than any piece of meat I’ve had recently. Like everything served here, its overblown arrival and subsequent presence at our table made me star-struck. ‘Oh my god, is that asparagus? Is he coming over to sit with us?’ You don’t eat the food here, you try and act chill in its company.
Nothing’s half-arsed. Everything is hysterically fabulous
Everything we chose had star-power. The lobster soufflé, served with a bisque, was as charismatic (and unconventionally attractive) as Serge Gainsbourg. The snails, bobbing in a roasted marrow bone full of parsley and garlic butter, resembled a miniature alien mountain-range, not dissimilar to something from a Yes record sleeve. Nothing’s half-arsed. Everything is packed with flavour and hysterically fabulous. Oh these scallops not extra enough for you, mate? How about we just drench them in beurre blanc, sprinkle with caviar and then serve inside a baked bread shell? How about that?
This place exists not just as a restaurant, but also a monument to one man’s vision of how the world should be. Otto, unconcerned by fad and fashion, has like a wide-eyed Anabaptist created his New Jerusalem on the Gray’s Inn Road. But instead of Christ on Earth it contains a steak tartare, whipped up by your table, served on a delicious rosti.
The vibe A private universe, into which the real world may not penetrate. Presided over by a man for whom hosting is a spiritual calling.
The food Old-school, meaty and grand. Like Gerard Depardieu. Unlike the tax exile however, portions are also extremely generous.
The drink A brilliant, full-French wine list, with a very fair-minded and clear cost-plus pricing system. You get what you pay for, basically.
Time Out tip The downstairs dining room is particularly striking and would serve as a suitable film set should anyone need a scene where a sinister cabal discusses plans for world domination.