Welcome to Otto's: Is this London's maddest restaurant — or its most magical?
David’s meal
The first time I went to Otto’s, the lunch ran to five hours. The reason? Variously: scallops, caviar, a truffle-studded chicken that emerged victoriously from a pig’s bladder, pints of white wine, the same of red, and a rambling conversation that covered everything from being a runaway in Paris to the birth of table dancing at Stringfellows (it was the customers; they’d get up and peel off on the promise of a bottle of Champagne). After this, owner Otto Tepasse — who, after a six-bottles-of-Champagne-a-day habit (though no table dancing), long ago decided to give up the drink — thought the only sensible move for me to make next would be to wade through a few hefty glasses of Armagnac from 1964. Well look, really, I hate to be rude.
When I arrived home, I was swiftly and sternly poured into the spare room for a 16-hour nap. You might not find stupors so seductive, but for me, it
