Chris Evans - Memoirs of a Fruitcake

1Lunch, again at Langan’s, with my management team-read on

FOR A BRIEF WHILE THE MANAGEMENT TEAMwere back in the building and back on side, but I could tell there was an ongoing and underlying frustration sapping their spirits. They were now under strict instructions that our fledgling golden brand was only to be polished, no longer pawned, in the quest for additional treasures.

It was at this point I realised I could do little more than I already had done to appease them, and that in reality I owned the company in name alone. I may have been signing the cheques but I was definitely not calling the shots.

Unrest soon began to set in for all of us and unrest, by its very nature, tends to grow as opposed to diminish. My guys were once again becoming more and more like caged tigers with the passing of each day. They were desperate to be cut loose and make the company more money, but instead they had to close their minds, eyes and ears to the countless business opportunities that were piling up in their in-trays.

I decided we needed a chat to clear the air.

‘Lunch?’ I suggested to DC.

‘Oh yes,’ came the resounding reply.

‘Langan’s?’ I suggested.

‘We’ll meet you there’, he confirmed.

Langan’s Brasserie is by far the best place for lunch I have ever been to in my life and I have been fortunate enough to have been to quite a few. Located just off Piccadilly, opposite Green Park, Langan’s doesn’t do quiet in any way shape or form. If you want quiet, Langan’s is not the place for you. For everything else, however, it’s brilliant.

Its energy, atmosphere, opulence and patronage are unique. And it’s always busy, even on the first Monday in January, notoriously the quietest day in every restaurant in the land. From lunch at midday right through to last orders at midnight, Langan’s never stops buzzing.

I’ve yet to be invited down to the kitchen but can only presume it’s a sight to behold, as the head chef and his loyal team churn out dish after dish of some of the most comforting food known to mankind: good old English fare, fearlessly fatty and dripping with calories.

There’s the sausage and mash made with far too much butter, the beautiful cod in batter so brittle it explodes in your mouth, the liver and bacon so bountiful it obscures the evidence of any plate beneath, and the croustade d’oeufs de caille – a sort of quails’ egg pasty – which is so good that quite frankly it should be illegal.

The waiters who run the whole show are dressed like boxing referees in black trousers, crisp white shirts with black dickybows and black silk waistcoats. They pride themselves on efficient service yet still appear to have plenty of time to chat to the customers whilst simultaneously being rushed off their feet. I’ve never quite figured out how it is they achieve such an illusion; maybe they’re all secretly magicians.

The artwork is also a sight to behold, providing the most colourful of backdrops to this already vibrant theatre of food and fantasy and, like most things in Langan’s, it also has a story to tell. Struggling artists yet to be discovered would offer up a completed canvas in return for a few months’ free feeding. These very paintings still adorn the walls there and include works by such well-known names as David Hockney and Guy Gladwell. For what such paintings are worth today, a fellow could easily eat out anywhere in the world without having to worry about the bill for the rest of his life.

The real legend of Langan’s however, is the original owner, Peter Langan himself. Sadly no longer with us, I’m sorry to say I never had the pleasure of meeting him, which is a real shame because from what I’ve heard he was quite a character, to say the least.

Langan stories are infamous in the catering trade. There are myriad tales of the Irish chef-cum-restaurateur who somehow persuaded Michael Caine to become his partner. No bad thing as it turned out, as Langan repaid Michael’s belief in him with impressive profits year after year. In fact Caine is the only celeb I know who has ever made any money out of owning a restaurant – and I feel qualified to say that, having owned three myself!

Langan’s eccentricities were born not only out of his love for his restaurant, the running of which entailed ludicrously long hours, but also from the countless bottles of bubbly he managed to consume on a daily basis. He was a big, big drinker: champagne and cider being his two favourite poisons of choice.

In the end it was the dreaded bottle that got the better of him, but not before he had formulated some interesting theories on life, love and justice.

On one occasion, for example, he was witnessed crawling under the tables during a lunchtime service, on his way to bite the ankle of a lady who’d thought it completely acceptable to bring in her beloved toy poodle. Having arrived at the ankle in question, Langan duly chomped into it with all his might. Neither the dog nor the lady was ever seen there again.

My other favourite Langan tale features him dressing up as a tramp and standing on the street outside the front door of his establishment, begging for money. This was a game he loved to play where, if any benevolent soul did happen to afford him a shilling or two, he would dramatically reveal his true identity before asking them inside to join him as his guest for the rest of the day and – no doubt – most of the night.

I’d love to have met Langan but despite his legendary status, ultimately there is nothing remotely funny about someone who drinks too much; it’s always the drink and not the drinker who has the last laugh. And so it was with Peter. In a desperate attempt to win back his battle-weary wife he set fire to himself as a cry for help, but he ended up overdoing it and it took him six weeks to die of his injuries.

After Peter so tragically died, Michael, having been bitten by the restaurant bug, remained an active partner in the business and could often be witnessed dining with his friends and colleagues at table number one.

Table number one can be found in the left-hand corner just as you walk in. It’s renowned as the best table in the house because from it you can see the rest of the dining room without having to look round – basically you can have a good old nosey without anyone noticing. Most top tables share this trait, though I doubt many of them have as much to be nosey about as Langan’s does.

There is no other place in the world that shares its unique blend of dining enthusiasts, where MPs mix with football managers, ladies who do lunch mingle with gentlemen who would love to do them, and Essex girls flock to trade city boys. This heady cocktail of clientele and culture-clashes often leads to a marathon of musical chairs, with tables of four or five frequently merging to become larger gatherings that often have to be politely asked to vacate their tables as the next diners are waiting to be seated – for dinner.

I’ve been fortunate enough to sit at table one from time to time and it’s always been a joy, as the waiters acknowledge one’s ascent to the top spot with a respectful nod. Table one is presided over by Peter Langan himself, thanks to a fabulous Guy Gladwell painting that hangs on the wall next to it. The great host has been immortalised in one of his trademark pale grey linen suits, which is all he ever wore; he had six, all identical and usually spattered and stained with the remains of whatever it was he had been eating and drinking that day.

The genius of this painting lies in the fact that the subject has his back to us and yet it’s so obviously him. He has his right hand in his pocket as he appears to walk away, but I have been assured, by people in the know, that he isn’t actually walking anywhere, he is leaning against a door with one heel in the air as he struggles to balance whilst he takes a pee through the letterbox.