In the same way that Damon Runyon’s characters leapt off the page and became part of the popular imagination, so every city needs its heroes and its faces — mythical and legendary. London is no different, and if you’ve lived here for any serious amount of time, you will have accumulated a number of people who define the city.
It might be your local publican, might be the bloke who works in the greengrocers down the road, or the barrister you always end up talking to at the football, or even the journalist you’ve befriended in your neighbourhood cafe. For years there were half a dozen chaps I was on nodding terms with, who worked in various record shops around town; I never really knew them, but they were always around. It was confusing when they drifted away.
I spent years going to nightclubs and knew dozens of people only by their Christian names; never knew what they did, didn’t matter, I didn’t care. Years ago there was a character called Jesus who used to turn up naked to festivals and gigs in London. He was so famous that if you went to a gig and he wasn’t there, you’d inevitably be disappointed. He was a part of the fabric of London. He was a genuine London face (and actually a kind of London backside, too).
Regardless how big a city is, you want to be able to walk around and recognise people you know
London is full of faces. The fashion designer Paul Smith can still be found in his Notting Hill shop at the weekend, looking after his customers, checking on trade and feeling the buzz. Jeremy King is a classic London face, and is always visible in his restaurants, no matter how many he has at the time. If you go to Arlington and he’s not there, you’re disappointed. He’s opening a new American-style place on the north side of Hyde Park soon — The Park — and one of the joys of going will be bumping into Jeremy. If he’s there, that is.
London needs faces, in the same way Beverly Hills needs its celebrities, Miami Beach needs its models and Manchester needs its footballers. Regardless how big a city is, you want to be able to walk around it and recognise people you know. Some you might never have met, might never have spoken to, in fact you might not even know their name. But you recognise them, and they make you feel good. Many London faces used to be found in Soho — Jeffrey Bernard in the Coach and Horses, Bernie Katz in the Groucho, and Tracey Emin and Damien Hirst just about everywhere — but these days they can be found anywhere from Silvertown to Acton, from Chelsea Harbour to Tower Hamlets.
The biggest face in property in London is David Rosen — a “space agent”, not an estate agent — who is a partner in Pilcher Hershman. Don’t know them? Well, they’re probably responsible for the coolest building in your street, the repurposed warehouse or mixed use shopping centre. Until he moved the company to Golden Square, David’s office was in Savile Row (opposite Richard James and Ozwald Boateng), and he used to introduce himself as David Savile Rosen. Not everyone could get away with something like that, but David could because he’s a face. A London face. One of the things I love about David is the way he only looks in two directions — up, towards London’s buildings, and down, taking a long, hard look at your shoes.
Like any London face, David has his own way of calibrating acceptability. David’s other defining characteristic is his almost pathological obsession with the Beatles; he was responsible for the blue plaque in Savile Row recognising the fact that the Fabs played their last-ever concert on the roof of Number 3.
Up until recently, David’s only vices appeared to be watching Arsenal and eating in Cecconi’s (same table, same dish, every day). Inspired by his love for George Harrison, Bob Dylan, the Velvet Underground and Sixties soul, David is now reinventing himself as a rock star, fronting a band of Denmark Street renegades called the Longshots. They’re playing this Wednesday at the Dublin Castle in Camden if you fancy some. If I were you I’d go along and see what a genuine London face looks like.
