The plaster bust of L’Escargot founder Georges Gaudin jauntily riding a snail twice his size has sat above the entrance to London’s oldest French restaurant for decades. With an outrageously moustachioed Gaudin coming on like a red-blazered multiman combo of Tom Selleck, Salvador Dali and Freddie Mercury, the kitsch effigy is to London food lore what Nelson, coyly perched atop his column in nearby Trafalgar Square, is to bumbling tourists. That this remains after the restaurant’s brief and mysterious closure at the top end of 2023 is sweet relief (though a new green exterior paintjob is less welcome). In fact, L’Escargot – which has been at its current location since 1927, after first opening down the road in 1896 – seems to be going nowhere.
There have been bankruptcies, new owners, a move from serving homely French fare in the 1960s to catering for a glammy media crowd in the 1980s, a Marco Pierre White era and threats of eviction, but L’Escargot remains. It was, and still is, all about the snails. It’s named in their honour, as the first place in the UK to serve them and at one point there was even a snail farm in the basement. These days they are sourced more ethically from a guy called The Snail Man who runs an organic snail farm in Herefordshire.
The snails were perfect; springy commas of coal black flesh and drenched in a lurid garlic and parsley butter, a kind of psychedelic liquid gold
Les escargots ‘maison’ are a half dozen for £18, or a dozen for £36 if you’re truly gaga for gastropods. On our visit they were perfect; springy commas of coal black flesh and drenched in a lurid garlic and parsley butter, a kind of psychedelic liquid gold which oozes out of a cast iron pot with individual divots for each shell. Bread to mop up the excess juice – of which there is an obscene amount – was vital.
However, a playlist of grating electroswing and overly perky pop bangers (at one point my guest asked ‘Is that… The Macarena?’ with noted concern) somewhat distracted us from the majesty of not just the snails, but the impressive history of this Georgian Soho mainstay. Any hint of mystique was shattered by the extremely incongruous soundtrack. Whither the chanson? What of the crooners? The baked lobster – which came soaked in the same garlic butter as the snails – and a ribeye with punchy peppercorn sauce that followed were pleasant, though far from cheap at £54 and £39. A cheesy dauphinoise with a crackable, almost creme brulee-esque top was the standout of the main course. We’re not asking for wall-to-wall Jacques Brel coming out of the speakers when we return, which we surely will, but playing the classics is surely L’Escargot’s strength.
The vibe London’s oldest French restaurant comes complete with a loyal crowd.
The food The snails are so infamous that the restaurant is named after them.
The drink French wine and a short but classic offering of cocktails and digestifs.
Time Out tip Come for the incredible snails and do your best to ignore the music.
