Too grand to be joyful

Bentley’s Oyster Bar & Grill is on Swallow Street, an alley between Piccadilly and Regent Street, which swallowed most of Swallow Street in the early 19th century. But that did not give it the name. Property developers only memorialise their crimes accidentally and Swallow Street is named for Thomas Swallow, about whom I know nothing else. He does not appear in Ed Glinert’s The London Compendium.

Bentley’s is both inside and outside a squat, ugly and very interesting yellow brick house. It preens like an ugly clever man. It has fine large windows with angry brick eyebrows. Outside, diners sit under square black umbrellas and behind a partition, with glass, in a parody of a private members’ club, but in the middle of a street. There is topiary, heating, an ornamental bicycle and even a carpet. The signage is electric, and bright green, as if written by a copywriter who is also a witch.

It is quite formal for outside dining but Bentley’s is old (it is 102) and very grand. It makes me ponder what Oslo Court would look like if it was partially outside. A rose garden full of chickens probably. The absence of cars ensures they do not choke to death on exhaust fumes, but it still feels mad — a private members’ club near a bus lane made for shoppers when George V was on the throne, and who are now dead. The catch of the day is on a blackboard, but this is the smooth and monetised heart of the West End of London, and the harbour at Newlyn feels far away.

Inside, there is a long room with a bar and red booths. It is pared down: there is nothing gaudy here in this restaurant that used to look like the Royal Opera House but no longer does.