Langan’s, a September Thursday, just gone half one in the afternoon. Drizzle outside. Inside? Everyone’s absolutely soaked.
One Hollywood star is leaning in on the wine; sorts in suits are celebrating with Champagne; another table is getting very particular with the martinis (“vodka, glacial, and make sure it’s an orange twist, not lemon.”). Carefree waiters glide with the food, but the sommelier is breaking a sweat.
“Now this,” one diner is saying to her pal, “is what my dad used to call a PFL. We always had the choice: did we want a TBL, two bottle lunch, or a PFL, a proper f***ing lunch?” It’s not just at Langan’s where lunch looks more like 1984 than 2024. “We don’t like to boot people out,” says Victor Garvey, of Soho’s Michelin-starred Sola.
“But we do when dinner service starts. At least once a day we get a table that comes in at 12.30 and doesn’t leave ‘til almost six.
” City sorts — by now surely sick to the back teeth of Zoom — seem to be back out in force, doing deals over bottles of Bordeaux and closing over chateaubriand. The idle rich never went away, of course. But for the rest of us, what in polite company is known as the power lunch means a chance to dress up, go big with the order, and gossip until it’s time to roll straight into supper.
So whether you’re signing on the dotted line or simply want a big one, here’s where to head. Rolexes at the ready. The Dover has enjoyed a deserved reputation for sultry evening.