Andrew edmunds is, undoubtedly, Soho’s most romantic spot: an antiquated vision of creaky furniture, long-peeled paint and flickering candlelight. Its compact main room is a bolthole from the pub overspill and snaking Bao queues outside, the basement basically made for surreptitious affairs.
The food itself is fairly unreconstructed and rustic bistro fare that plays objective second fiddle to the hyper-atmospheric enclaves. But it’s very nice all the same. Namely, an over-loose dollop of whipped cod’s roe on toast, with a soft pheasant’s egg and stalky, peppery fronds of watercress; an over-solid slab of smoked eel with subtly sinus-ripping horseradish crème fraîche; and a mild, nourishing broth of new season garlic, fresh peas and fowl. All fine little dishes that far surpassed the larger plates, especially a staggeringly boring pile of crispy polenta wedges and non-existent salsa verde. A slice of barely-set milk tart – redolent of supermarket egg custard tarts, in a good way – was a pleasant way to end.
Service was both wilfully mischievous and charming, and the well-regarded wine list thoughtfully curated. But the old-school setting really is everything here: love the food or no, for swooning romance alone Andrew Edmunds is an unswerving classic.