Is it ever OK to take your dog out to dinner?

The Parisian gent who went viral this week when he treated his pooch to a meal at Les Deux Magots could teach this nation of supposed dog lovers a thing or two, says Kate Spicer

Kate Spicer dining with her dog, Wolfy (Chris Floyd)

Dogs in restaurants is a very French thing. It’s rare to see a sign outside a brasserie that says “chiens interdits”. While dogs generally have a better time of it in London – over here, they’re not only allowed in public parks, but also off the lead, too – in Paris, they’re a walking, four-legged photographic cliché.

This week, a tweet about a French dog went viral. A Parisian was spotted dining a deux with his chihuahua at Les Deux Magots, the legendary St Germain brasserie. He ordered two main courses – one for himself, and one for his canine companion, who sat on the burgundy banquette in a red sweater. The owner, who had a glass of red wine with his asparagus and scrambled egg, then fed his pet chunks of salmon in between bites of his own meal.

Britain is supposedly a nation of dog lovers, but that’s true love.

I was sitting in Mike’s Cafe – a Portobello Road institution, though not quite as historic as Les Deux Magots – waiting for my beans on toast when I came across @lizziefrainier’s tweet.

“Oh dear,” I tutted to Sue, one of the cafe’s owners. “That would never happen here.”

Two days later and I'm still thinking about the fact that the man on the table next to me at Les Deux Magots in Paris ordered two main courses — one for himself and one for his dog.

He then proceeded to feed the chihuahua chunks of salmon in between bites of his own meal... pic.twitter.com/luwMv0A06f

— Lizzie Frainier (@lizziefrainier) December 7, 2023

“What?” she said, putting a mug of tea down in front of me and bending her head to look at my screen. On either side of me, my large Spanish hunting dogs, one the size of a greyhound and the other a whippet, were tucking into their respective bowls of sliced sausages that she always brings as soon as we are settled on Mike’s banquettes.

“Asparagus!” I said. “In winter! Can you believe it? I just can’t believe Les Deux Magots serve anything as gauche as out of season asperge. And with red wine, too – terrible pairing.”

Dogs at table, however, I have no problem with. Mike’s has served my hounds hundreds of sausages over the years since I became a dog owner. Wolfy, my first, a lurcher, was so loved there that he would be offered poached chicken breast with his sausages. My big podenco, Buf, has learned that sitting at the table requires that she eats a little more gently than when it’s served off the floor.

In recent years, the trend for letting dogs into restaurants has grown – even over here, where it was frowned upon until very recently. If you look at searches for dog-friendly restaurants on Google Trends, it starts to climb around 2016 and peaks in 2021, as owners of the million new dogs we acquired during lockdown started to wonder how much they could actually do with them.

Something I learned very quickly about working and owning a dog in a city is that your dog needs stimulation, and, crucially, your dog needs you. And the only practical answer to this is to take him with you, everywhere you can. Eating out works very efficiently with a dog walk – the energetic, appetite-building walk there, the digestive stroll home…

The only way to own a dog in a city is to make their life yours and vice versa – and the restaurants that understand this tend to be pretty cool ones. Trevor Gulliver, one of the founders of St John, the pioneering “nose-to-tail” restaurant that opened in Farringdon 29 years ago, says the presence of both dogs and children in his and Fergus Henderson’s restaurants was a “non-issue” from the off.

“It’s very simple,” he tells me. “If it’s kids, you sort them out first – get them a drink and some bread or a plate of chips, whatever it might be, but always feed the kids first. It’s the same with dogs. On arrival, bring them a bowl of water and a marrow bone.”

Another convert to dogs in smart dining rooms is Plaxy Locatelli, wife of chef Giorgio and owner of cockerpoo Olive. She once told me she loves to hear the odd, random “woof” at Locanda Locatelli: “It makes you feel at home – it demystifies the uptightness and expectations of formality some of our guests come in with.”

My favourite walk with Wolfy, who I adopted in my mid-40s – and whom I wrote about in my book, Lost Dog: A Love Story – was through Hyde Park to Locanda Locatelli. We often went, especially on my birthday. He arrived well walked and, in that doggy way, was able the sniff the happy pheromones wafting from me with my glass of wine and a plate of chestnut pasta with chicken liver. He knew that if he was good and settled politely, I would dangle a thick ribbon of papperdelle over his open jaws.

Wolfy died recently, and dining out is a little more complicated when you have two, new (rescue, always) Spanish hunting dogs. One of them is huge. The little one is still a Cookie Monster and not fully restaurant-trained. Recently, when the little dog and I were having dinner at Angela Hartnett’s one-Michelin-starred Murano, she wriggled off to Armando Iannucci’s table to see if he fancied giving her a lamb cutlet.

His face reminded me, that while I fully and passionately endorse allowing dogs in even the finest restaurants, it is seriously beholden upon the owner of said beast to teach them impeccable table manners.

Kate Spicer is author of Lost Dog: A Love Story (Penguin, £9.99)