The Running Horse (Bar, Restaurant)

Ah Oxford Street; lovely foe to my wallet, Oxford Street. The relationship I have with that densely packed 2.4km stretch of road is similar to the relationship I have with my mother: I love it to bits, I get excited on anticipation of a visit, but after about an hour I’m ready to imitate the homeless, wrap myself in newspaper and torch the self made armour of kindling. (Sorry ma.)

Luckily, I’ve discovered a haven away from the pushing and the shoving and the general Lord of the Flies savagery of the street. The Running Horse is a nearby source of mayhem prevention. It is also brilliantly English and as said book’s Nobel-winning author, William Golding, once said, “we’re not savages, we’re English, and the English are best at everything.”

You’re right to be wary. Most places that are a hop, skip and a jump from the famous street offer food that pales in comparison to even sloppy school dinners. And they charge extortionate prices for it. Trust me, though; whether you trot, run or even canter your way to The Running Horse, you’ll neigh (sorry) regret it.

Firstly, the pub is the oldest in Mayfair, dating back to 1738 when the original building was transformed into a tavern. Back then, when it was just a spritely foal, it went by the name ‘Galloping Horse of Hanover’. Being 272 years older now, the old nag’s slowed down to a run, but the fact that it has managed to survive for so long puts it on the list of must-visits, even disregarding all its other charms.

Indeed, The Running Horse has more than just the one charm, as it’s not just about interesting history and convenient geography; it’s about well thought out and excellently executed food. A harmonious combination of old English favourites - like fish and chips with tartare sauce and a pea puree - and modern infusions - such as lamb tagine with apricot and coriander couscous - are displayed on the simplistic but effective one-sided A4 menu. I wanted to devour all of it but unfortunately my belly was only generous enough to allow three courses and a few glasses of wine. Those with small appetites - or gastric bands - take note; The Running Horse may be a torturous affair.

Perhaps it was only I that was harbouring this agony as the other patrons in the first floor restaurant - couples, friends, birthday celebrators – showed no sign of any internal feuding, their calm exteriors exuding only smiles and laugher from across the wooden tables lit with delicate teas lights. Above their heads were framed and strategically lit pictures of – you’ll never guess – horses, and a few oval mirrors accompanied our four legged friends on the wall. Meanwhile, white lillies avoided having to vie for space, spreading out on the various shelves.

It was sadistic to continue torturing myself any longer so I sluggishly made my way downstairs, popping my head into the ground floor bar where yet more drinkers seemed to be oblivious to any self-persecution, happily joking and buzzing in the pleasant surroundings, before heading home by tube, sadly not by horseback.
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