In the shadows of Camden, down by Mornington Crescent tube station, there’s a sleepy little parade of shops on Eversholt Street. It has a couple of barbers, a cycle and repair shop, two beauty salons, a long-established Japanese restaurant, a barbecue place and, of course, a branch of Costa coffee.
Unless you’re walking to Euston or heading to Koko, it’s not a destination per se. It’s an ordinary London street lined with several Victorian buildings. Nestled near the end is number 245, a cavernous little restaurant that runs deep into its basement. Lost Souls is the world’s only vampire pizzeria.
It opened in 2017 under the name Lost Boys by way of tribute to The Lost Boys horror movie. Then, distributors Warner Bros came calling and they had to change it. Lost Souls is nonetheless decked out in and devoted to The Lost Boys memorabilia, with hundreds of references to the 1987 cult classic, including a poster signed by the cast. It nods, too, to The Exorcist, which the restaurant’s owner Pete Clucas first watched when he was six.
Pete grew up watching scary movies in a video shop in Liverpool run by his much older brother. His job there was to rewind the tapes. He moved to Islington when he was 17 and now resides in Margate. A self-identified “lost soul” and “spooky kid”, his devotion to the dark cause runs deep. He has masterminded a unique supernatural lair for London’s ghouls and goths.
It’s not just about very light-tasting black charcoal-based pizzas with balsamic pentagrams, or the Lost Boys themed cocktails. There’s one called Only Noodles, Michael. See below.
There are also a red velvet-lined coffin for the undead, vampires in the hallway and a scary baby doll trapped in the window bars. One of the best bits is the deadly funny graffiti in the loos, (instigated by the owner, “Yer ma’s got a baldy head”) revealing the dark-hearted reciprocal humour of the restaurant patrons.
Lost Souls works because everybody is in on the joke. Goth and metal tunes complete the atmosphere and you can expect to hear Tim Capello and his sax during your meal.
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I’ve been to Lost Souls many times before, both before and since a shocking arson attack decimated the place and melted all the wiring. This time I’m taking two good friends. Both have worked in the music industry for decades, but despite being very prominent in the 1980s and 1990s, they’ve never understood the allure or sound of “goth” and they’ve never seen The Lost Boys.
By contrast, I identify as a creature of the night. At least, I did in my teens, and my teens have never left my soul. I watched The Lost Boys repeatedly with my best pal Babs. We were obsessed, could recite every line, and, madly, in Los Angeles in 2001, I had the good fortune to meet and spend an evening with Kiefer Sutherland, one the stars of the movie, doing exactly that.
Back in the here and now, I’m looking over the themed menu and my first friend arrives chuckling at his weird and wonderful surroundings. Then my second friend arrives, his eye having caught a neon sign outside that reads, ‘The power of slice compels you” (an Exorcist joke). He proceeds to ask me about this place I’ve booked, what the hell it is, and is it Hell that he’s in. “It’s like a satanic Madam Tussauds in here,” he says.
To enhance our experience, Harmony, the Lost Souls front of house dark queen, is today accompanied by Count Orlock, a special guest vampire visiting to honour their Bad Friday promotion. They are greeting customers at tables and my ‘Madam Tussauds’ pal looks anywhere to avoid eye contact with the Count.
Orlock is a perfect combination of humour and horror, simultaneously unnerving and delighting all pizza-eating goths. Underneath the disguise is Lani Mask, a 22 year-old, self-taught and highly creative costumier from Lambeth who designs and makes his own gear and works at Robert Allsopp.
Our Kiefer-inspired high energy waiter, Rae, originally from Delaware, and who I have been served by before, has been at Lost Souls for five years and is an expert deliverer of the full experience. I fancy the Tower pizza, but am also tempted by the Coffin Dodger and Death options. One friend is having the Santa Carla, and we laugh at Fangs for the Memories. My other friend asks for a “small bite’, with a quick glance around to check Count Orlock isn’t looming near his neck.
The staff and service are a huge part of the draw of the place. The restaurant’s recruitment ads specifically seek out lost souls in London, those that feel they don’t belong elsewhere. “The alternative communities have nowhere to call their own that’s a restaurant,” Pete Clucas has said. I talk to Alice, upstairs mixing cocktails, who started in July and feels “no longer lost, but found”.
Such is the power of the slice. And Lost Souls’ distinctive pizzas really are about the best in London. We are given a free black, sugary, red cherry jam Bombo Doughnut to finish, which is bloody delicious.
After a strong debate about goth music (in which I am victorious – “You don’t have to beat me, you just have to try and keep up”) we exit to the street. There is a funeral parlour directly opposite. I hadn’t noticed it on the way in and I’m startled by its befitting location. I spin around, half expecting Lost Souls to be gone, disappeared. But it’s there. I still believe.
Chilling addendum: In a later chat with Pete, I find out that the basements of the funeral parlour and Lost Souls buildings meet each other beneath the middle of the street. The parlour’s morgue and the Lost Souls storage space is separated only by a brick wall.
Pete didn’t know this when he bought the building: He tells me: “Nobody wants to be down there alone. I slept there once. Creepy things happen, stuff moves and touches you.” No wonder the pizza is dead good.