13 Exeter Street, London WC2 (020 7836 0651). Meal for two, including wine and service: £100
I am staring down at the white paper tablecloth in front of me and imagining that, when I look up, the room will be as I recall it: the tables packed with theatre types, some of them instantly recognisable, the hubbub rising out of this warm basement space like the froth on a boiling pan of milk. Instead, Joe Allen is all but empty. It is past curtain-down in London's theatreland. This used to be the restaurant's moment, the time when cast members would link arms and make for their unofficial canteen, with its bare-brick walls crusted with signed theatre posters. They went for Caesar salads and buffalo chicken wings, for ribs with black-eyed peas and corn bread, or the hamburger that was not on the menu but everybody knew about. They went for brownie à la mode. All of London's modern, dirty-food clichés? They were here first. Tonight, though, the diners are elsewhere.
This restaurant has a special place in my congested heart. Joe Allen opened in January 1977 and I first came, aged 10, a few months later. It was one of the places where I learned to eat. Its importance to the London restaurant scene cannot be overstated. Jeremy King, who went on (with Chris Corbin of Langan's) to take over the Ivy and then, later, launch the Wolseley, was maître d' here as was Russell Norman, one of the men behind the Polpo group. Rowley Leigh was head chef before launching Kensington Place. Graham Norton realised he was a crap waiter and so moved into standup. (The waiters have generally always been out-of-work actors and dancers.)
Aged 16 I used to bring girls to Joe Allen hoping to get a snog, and then ruin my chances by ordering the ribs. Who would want to snog a boy with sauce dripping off his fat cheeks? I once sat at the same table as both Lionel Blair and Una Stubbs. Les Dawson stopped by to say hello. I lived the dream at Joe's.
Last December, Richard Polo, owner these past 35 years, sold up. Joe Allen is now in the hands of a couple of west London restaurateurs and the chairman of the Carluccio's chain.
And so, after an absence, it was time to return. What is most striking is not the empty tables but the mere fact of its survival. Everything it once did is now done all over town. It used to be the only place for a real Caesar salad. It still does it and, while it's not quite the glory it was in its 80s pomp – not as garlicky or powerful – it could still give others a masterclass. The chopped liver is not quite as good as that at Mishkin's up the road, but the accompanying pickles are far better: crunchy, sharp, a whack about the chops.
There are absences. The buffalo wings have gone, as have the ribs. But everything else is there and more. There are chopped salads, crispy squid and serious steaks at reasonable prices. The brioche-bunned burger is still not on the menu, and mounts a serious challenge to many others in town. At the end, the pecan pie is a bash of sweet and soft with crisp pastry. Best of all is a strawberry jelly with roasted-peanut ice cream. All this, and the brilliant Jimmy Hardwick, who has been playing the piano here since day one and still does.
When the takeover was announced there were mutterings. What awful plans did these heathens have for Joe's? As we ate our way through a very agreeable, if hardly original meal, I asked another question. Why would you buy it given the challenges? Why not just rip it up and start again? And then it struck me. Because you adore the place. One of the new owners, Tim Healy, is the son of an actor and, like me, came as a kid. They've bought it because they love it. It still has a warmth and a glow, a sweet, unforced shtick that few others can match. The crowds need to return. Joe Allen deserves them.
Email Jay at jay.rayner@observer.co.uk. Follow Jay on Twitter @jayrayner1
