Oslo Court
PEOPLE EITHER ENTER into the spirit of Oslo Court with gusto or regard it with a mingling of distaste and incomprehension. Either way, their eyebrows are sure to rise upon entering. They’re unlikely to descend until they’ve staggered out several hours later.
Even the location, on the ground floor of a Thirties mansion block in the wilds of St John’s Wood, is unorthodox. Still, it’s nothing compared to the décor, which has existed in a state of suspended animation since Charles and Diana were newlyweds. Reminiscent of a superannuated cruise liner, it’s a phantasmagoria of swags and ruches, velour and net. The dominant colour is pink: pink napery, pink candles, pink rose-buds. I suspect Argos discontinued the pattern of the china around 1994. Even the waiters in their ill-fitting dinner jackets look the part. So do one’s fellow diners. With the exception of the odd, incredulous first-timer, they’re locals and regulars to a man. The menu, I hardly need add, is an extraordinary survival from an era when deep-fried mushrooms with garlic dip were standard, Steak Diane was the acme of sophistication, and ‘sweets’ trundled up to one’s table on a silver trolley. As culinary time-warps go, it’s bizarre, it’s camp and it’s unintentionally hilarious. It’s also surprisingly good. Be warned: so rich is the fare, you won’t recover your appetite until two days after your visit.
See also… frankly, there’s nothing else like it in London.
