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Dylan Thomas lost the original, handwritten, copy of Under Milk Wood at the French House in 1953 — the perfect summation of this joint's squiffy literary bent. Formerly the Wine House, then, from 1914, known as York Minster, its name was changed to the French House in 1984 following the fire at the actual York Minster. Its current moniker stems from its stint as a meeting place for the French Resistance during the Second World War.
Along with a few other hangers-on such as Gerry's and the Coach & Horses, the French House is a taste of old Soho proper — cramped, dark, but atmospheric (sometimes you think you can still smell the cigarette smoke hanging in the air).
In the perma-crowded bar you will inevitably hear some boomer brag about how they used to prop up the bar with Jeffrey Bernard or Maggi Hambling. Black and white photos of the artsy erstwhile regulars stare down at you as if you're encroaching on their turf — and sometimes there's a mini exhibition on, fitting given how many creatives got lashed here. The opening times, by the way, are whimsically stuck in the 1950s — 12pm-3pm then 6pm-9pm. Closed Sundays.
Drink-wise, the beer is a unimaginative to say the least, but then, this is not the kind of establishment where you come to appreciate the finer points of the motueka hop. You can, however, try 30 types of champagne by the glass as well as traditional French cider. Or let the colour of the walls inspire you, and get a glass of burgundy.
Famously, the French House refuses to serve pints (except for on one day of the year), and takes a dim view of mobile phone use. Take touristy snaps like the ones here at your own risk.
