I IJAIII I IWKII111!l y 1 111 1111 111 111 11R U I ILL MY TEETH took on an industrial-stren g th
meringue in the works canteen the other day, and the meringue won. A tooth to the bad, I headed for that antiseptic corner of Marylebone which one always thinks of as `Dentistville'. Notwithstanding the Geor- gian houses, every corner evokes childhood nightmares of 'rinse now, please', the whiff of gas and the hum of the drill. Still numb from the anaesthetic, I was wandering around not very purposefully when I spotted the elegant frontage of Odin's restaurant. Was I hallucinating? Surely Odin's — the Sixties works canteen of Patrick Procktor, Francis Bacon, Lucian Freud, David Hock- ney and other artists — must have packed up years ago. Why, Peter Langan, its prime mover, had been dead for at least five. That night, at a launch party for Dear Mary: The Spectator Book of Solutions (HarperCollins, £7.99), I consulted a foodie style guru. 'Yes, it's still there all right,' he told me. 'In fact, it's gone so far out of fashion that it might even be about to make a comeback.' I rounded up a party of tasters, including Dear Mary's illustrator Beatrix Nevill, the award-winning novelist Andrew Barrow and Christopher Simon Sykes. On arrival, we were shown to a cramped 'lounge'. Feeling rather flat after the jollifications, we apologetically ordered some mineral water. 'Don't worry,' quipped the waiter, `wait and see what we charge for the water.' Things looked up once we advanced into the restaurant proper — a splendid room hung with Langan's eclectic art collection, in which sumptuous canvases of La Belle Epoque jostled with high kitsch and Sixties masterpieces. We were seated in proper old-fashioned armchairs besides Hockney's portrait of Langan. Pointing to a fin-de-siecle picture, Annabel Freyberg, another of our party, asked, 'Who is that lovely picture of Whistler by?' I am inclined to agree with you, Madam,' was the cryptic reply of the maitre d' who reminded me of the Laurence Olivier character in the Jennifer Jones 'weepie' Carrie, though Beatrix Nevill was put more in mind of Mr McKay in Porridge. Nearby was a Ralph Steadman interpre- tation of an old Spike Milligan joke: 'Wait- er, there's a fly in my soup.' Never mind, Sir, the spider on the bread roll will get him.' Langan himself, of course, was cele- brated for swallowing a dead cockroach that had been found in the ladies' lavatory of one of his establishments, and washing it down with a glass of vintage Krug. The Odin's rolls were spider-free, with nuts planted at the bottom. In view of our large number, I was glad to see that the menu comprised a three-course set dinner (including filter coffee) at £18.95, or two courses at £16.95. There was ample choice, and I am only sorry that no one opted for the 'Casserole of Feathered Game'. 'Here's one of the feathers,' remarked Beatrix as some fluff fluttered on to her sleeve. For 'Starters', she and Sykes were well satisfied with the simple but effective 'pan- fried' chicken liver with spinach salad and the 'appealingly presented' artichoke heart with quails' eggs and mushrooms, respec- tively. Barrow described his leek tart with mustard sauce as 'gentle', but Annabel and I were slightly disappointed by the kipper souffle. It had risen well, but didn't taste kippery enough. I chose a grilled fillet of beef with brandy cream and wild mush- rooms ('Supplement £2.50'), which was on the bland side. 'You've made a mis-steak there,' said Beatrix. She was equally unen- thused by her John Dory ('pan-fried' again) with ginger and chive butter sauce, but Sykes and Barrow were delighted with their lamb cutlets ('beyond reproach') in a glazed rosemary and garlic sauce. Taking her cue from the menu's tip, 'If you require an alternative not mentioned below please ask,' Annabel sensibly added a meaty Cumberland sausage to her vegetarian dish of artichoke and red pepper sauce. The side dishes of vegetables were uninspired. Of the 'Desserts' tried, Mrs Langan's chocolate pudding (`very light sponge') and the date and ginger pudding with butter- scotch sauce scored well, the crème brill& and the creamed rice pudding less so. The latter was not improved by being served in a ramekin. 'A what-e-kin?' exclaimed Sykes. The clientele of Odin's remains some- thing of a mystery. The raffish atmosphere is long gone but it offers reasonably priced food in most beguiling surroundings. The bill, with two bottles of wine (an Australian chardonnay at £18.50, a Cote de Blaye 1986 at £14.50), worked out at about £32 per head. Certainly worth bearing in mind the next time you go to the dentist, even if you have to 'eat on one side only'.
Odin's Restaurant, 27 Devonshire Street, London W1 (Tel: 071 935 7296).
Hugh Massingberd
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