Richard Shepherd

High up on the corner where Stratton Street meets Piccadilly, a red neon sign proclaims the way to Langan’s Brasserie. It is a redundant gesture for a restaurant which has become a landmark on London’s high-society carousel and an institution which, even after 13 years, seems to be impervious to the fickle pendulum of fashion.

Inside, ceiling fans hover low over closely packed, paper-draped tables like a fleet of helicopter gunships. Dragged paintwork in shades of camel and tobacco covers walls and ceilings, suggesting an aura of advanced but homely wear and tear. Wall lights hang, like wilting amber bluebells, lilies and foxgloves. Nothing matches. The place is an interior designer’s Armageddon and a picture gallery with no theme. Hockneys hang with posters of the Folies Bergères. Pastiche and montage compete with sepia prints and portraits of the three famous partners — Michael Caine, Richard Shepherd and the late Peter Langan. A crass advertising slogan, ‘For your throat’s sake smoke Craven A’, shares space with a Keating self-portrait and two large paintings of Chelsea football ground and a boxing match at the Royal Albert Hall. There are wood carvings of swans and cockerels, a stuffed exotic bird behind a glass case and a chaotic jumble of lost titles is stacked on sagging book shelves.