Dad and Restaurants
My early memories of getting to know my father took place mostly in restaurants. As a tiny child I remember mum taking my sister Esther and I to meet him in Marine Ices in Chalk Farm, an Italian family run place which specialised in homemade ice cream. Used to quite frugal repasts, I still remember decades later the towering luxurious Knickerbocker Glory that I only ate a fraction of. When I’m really hungry I go back in my thoughts and polish it off. When I was eleven we started meeting at a Greek restaurant just off Notting Hill Gate. My mother would drop me off in the afternoon and my father treated me to whatever I wanted without eating himself. I imagine it was too early in the cycle of the day for him to have any appetite. I looked forward to these encounters. We didn’t talk a lot, we were both quite shy. I remember my father’s restlessness. But we enjoyed each other’s company. And gradually I started to tell him about home life, and found a fantastic ally in him. Things got going when I was fourteen and my father took me to Wheelers in Old Compton Street. Wheelers was a big restaurant like something out of a French novel. The outside was painted dark green, with small window panes of opaque glass making up the frontage. As soon as we stepped inside I saw my father in action in a new way. There was no waiting, we were immediately whisked to the table. All the waiters seemed to know him ‘Ello Mr Freud’. Dad left enormous tips, even to the coat check girl. His tips were not condescending gestures, they were swift actions made with respect. It was much appreciated. This photograph by John Deakin taken in 1963 shows dad with friends and fellow artists Tim Behrens,
Francis Bacon, Frank Auerbach, and Michael Andrews having one of their then regular long lunches, where wild and brilliant conversation was exchanged and many bottles of Sancerre consumed. When I moved from Sussex to London age sixteen and started sitting for my father, we would go out late, around 11pm. He would take me to Annabel’s, Mark Birley’s private members club – an exclusive affair in those days. We would sit at his favourite round table in the corner where you could see everyone yet feel quite hidden. The food was delicious, a rarity in those days. I remember we would sometimes lick the plate, unthinkable now. Aged 22 I broke ranks from being at the end of a phone call at midnight for the ‘Are you free, shall we meet?” I was in love and about to move to Rome for a couple of years. We met for a last supper and I could hardly contain my grief at the thought of parting. Luckily a beautiful woman suddenly appeared and dad sprang up and disappeared with her to the dance floor. There were many other significant restaurants: River Café which we went to when it first opened, and Clarkes which was like a second home to him. The Wolseley, then owned by Jeremy King, was where he went for dinner every night for the last few years of his life. One of my father’s subversive behaviours was to roll up pellets of bread and flick them at some selected target across the tables. When my son Jimmy was just old enough to join for dinner my father would occasionally throw a pellet of bread at him sitting two places away. After a pause, Jimmy would throw one back with an equally dead pan expression. The wonderful staff at the Wolseley protected him from the occasional irate diner if they realised the bread pellets came from my father’s hand. When he died they kept his table empty that night, with a single candle and a black cloth.
Francis Bacon, Frank Auerbach, and Michael Andrews having one of their then regular long lunches, where wild and brilliant conversation was exchanged and many bottles of Sancerre consumed. When I moved from Sussex to London age sixteen and started sitting for my father, we would go out late, around 11pm. He would take me to Annabel’s, Mark Birley’s private members club – an exclusive affair in those days. We would sit at his favourite round table in the corner where you could see everyone yet feel quite hidden. The food was delicious, a rarity in those days. I remember we would sometimes lick the plate, unthinkable now. Aged 22 I broke ranks from being at the end of a phone call at midnight for the ‘Are you free, shall we meet?” I was in love and about to move to Rome for a couple of years. We met for a last supper and I could hardly contain my grief at the thought of parting. Luckily a beautiful woman suddenly appeared and dad sprang up and disappeared with her to the dance floor. There were many other significant restaurants: River Café which we went to when it first opened, and Clarkes which was like a second home to him. The Wolseley, then owned by Jeremy King, was where he went for dinner every night for the last few years of his life. One of my father’s subversive behaviours was to roll up pellets of bread and flick them at some selected target across the tables. When my son Jimmy was just old enough to join for dinner my father would occasionally throw a pellet of bread at him sitting two places away. After a pause, Jimmy would throw one back with an equally dead pan expression. The wonderful staff at the Wolseley protected him from the occasional irate diner if they realised the bread pellets came from my father’s hand. When he died they kept his table empty that night, with a single candle and a black cloth.
