The French House

Just what Soho needed - another supposedly authentic French establishment in London. The French House has been lording it over Dean Street since what feels like the Mesolithic period, and yet the endless parade of devotees continues to squeeze into its cramped quarters like sardines in a tin marked "pretentious."

I wanted to hate it. Really, I did. The ground floor pub with its no-phones policy and steadfast refusal to serve anything remotely resembling a pint (half-measures only, darling) should have been enough to send me running for the nearest Wetherspoons. But then I made the fateful decision to climb those narrow stairs to the restaurant above.

Damn them for being so irritatingly good at what they do.

The dining room is small enough to feel like you're having dinner in someone's particularly well-appointed living room - if that someone happened to be a slightly eccentric Parisian aunt with impeccable taste and a collection of vintage champagne. The French House manages to pull off that most difficult of tricks: feeling exclusive without being exclusionary.

The daily-changing blackboard menu is either charming or infuriating, depending on your disposition and whether you've managed to secure one of the coveted tables near enough to actually read it. But here's the truly annoying part - everything on it is executed with the kind of confident simplicity that makes you wonder why other restaurants try so hard to reinvent the wheel.

Take the steak. Just a humble rump, cooked precisely as requested, with some of the best chips this side of the Channel. No foam, no smears, no "deconstructed" nonsense. Just proper cooking that would make any French grandmother nod in approval. The seafood, when it appears, is treated with similar respect - fresh oysters that taste of the sea rather than the refrigerator, and fish that remembers it once swam.

The wine list, like the room itself, is compact but carefully considered. Yes, it's predominantly French, because of course it is. But unlike some establishments I could name (but won't, because their lawyers are terrifyingly efficient), the markup won't require you to remortgage your flat in Clapham.

Service strikes that perfect balance between professional and personal that the French do so well and the British spend centuries trying to emulate. They know their stuff but won't bore you with a 20-minute monologue about the soil composition in Burgundy unless you actually ask.

And then there are those madeleines. Warm, fresh-baked little clouds that arrive at your table like some sort of culinary full stop. They're the kind of simple pleasure that makes you momentarily forget about your cynicism, your deadlines, and the fact that you're paying central London prices for what is essentially a fancy cake.

The French House isn't trying to reinvent French cuisine or dazzle you with innovation. Instead, it's doing something far more difficult - maintaining standards in a city where restaurants often flame out faster than a poorly made crêpe Suzette. It's the kind of place that makes you realize why certain institutions become institutions in the first place.

Getting a table requires either excellent planning or excellent luck - though I suspect the latter is more likely to strike if you're a regular. The upstairs restaurant takes bookings, thank heaven, because the alternative would be joining the cheerful chaos of the pub downstairs and hoping to catch the eye of someone important-looking.

Is it worth it? God help me, yes. The French House in London has earned its reputation through decades of consistent quality rather than Instagram-worthy gimmicks. It's a reminder that sometimes the best restaurants are the ones that simply do the basics brilliantly well, even if it pains me to admit it.

Make a reservation. Join the queue. Become one of those insufferably smug people who can say "Oh, you haven't been to the French House? You really must go." I'll roll my eyes at you, but secretly, I'll know you're right.