British food has long been unfairly maligned as being brown, bread-y, and boring. But stateside, we’ve seen a major shift in attitudes toward British food in the past year or two, with a near-sensational response to new British-inspired restaurants such as Dean’s and Wilde’s. And London’s restaurant scene is vast and ambitious, yet also surprisingly intimate. It draws from culinary traditions all over the world without feeling trend-chasing, celebrates seasonal ingredients with near-religious devotion, and retains a warmth that makes even exceptional restaurants feel disarmingly welcoming. Meals here have a way of stretching into entire evenings, and you’ll want them to. With its centuries-old pubs, world-class Indian food, Italian trattorias and Spanish tapas bars, a growing Southeast Asian scene, neighborhood bistros, and ambitious fine dining, it’s one of the world’s great food cities.
Europe has been sweltering this summer, and I experienced its late June heat wave firsthand when I recently visited a longtime friend (and fellow food writer) living on a houseboat near Tower Bridge. London was pushing triple digits and, in my American opinion, is woefully deficient in air conditioning and ice — but my food itinerary was stacked enough that neither the sauna-like temperatures nor a merciless case of jet lag could stop me from exploring, eating, drinking, and enjoying all the roasted meats, Eton messes, and gin and tonics that London has to offer.
Having a game plan (i.e. a map of recommendations and a roster of reservations) may sound type A, but, in this city, majorly pays off. Because London is enormous and crossing it in 93-degree heat is no small undertaking, I mostly stayed in central and east London.
I condensed the highlights of a five-day trip into a three-day itinerary that prioritizes long lunches, memorable dinners, and excellent pubs. Consider it my greatest hits.
I landed in London sweaty, jet-lagged, and starving. My first stop was Towpath, a tiny, produce-forward café on Regent’s Canal accessible only by foot or bike with a cult following. My friend Charley and I shared mortadella with cherries, trout with creme fraiche, silky eggplant dip, crunchy chicken salad, and a cooling bowl of mint soft serve. Exactly the lunch I wanted after a transatlantic red-eye.
By late afternoon, surviving the overbearing heat and my near-psychedelic level of sleep deprivation demanded a large, cold drink. At the 17th-century pub The George, I drank what may have been the most refreshing (and largest) gin and tonic of my life while pointing a rhinestone-studded portable fan directly at my face.
I yearned for a delicious Indian meal as soon as possible upon arriving in the city, so I arranged to meet friends at Brigadiers, an upscale Indian sports bar. It’s the more casual cousin of two-Michelin-starred Gymkhana (same restaurant group, along with Ambassadors Clubhouse), and reminded me why London’s Indian restaurants are in a league of their own. We dove into a feast of butter-chicken wings, smoky tandoori lamb chops, prawn biryani, goat vindaloo samosas, chile-paneer lettuce cups, cardamom creme brulee, and green-chile coriander margaritas. Absolute perfection, and they had strong air conditioning; I almost cried.
After dinner we wandered into Cittie of Yorke, a vaulted, dark-wood pub that’s existed in some form since the 15th century. Very Harry Potter-core. We popped in for more gin and tonics, then headed to Soho.
First, there was Trisha’s, a deranged quirky basement jazz club (using that term loosely) in Soho. Within minutes, we’d befriended an Absolutely Fabulous-coded woman in animal print; suddenly, we were doing strawberry-and-cream tequila shots with her before being escorted around Soho by a man known as “John the Hat.” One drink became several. We ended up watching a Broadway-style performance of Britney Spears’ “Toxic” with live violin in the sweltering basement of Gerry’s Club. The night ended with cocktails in the upstairs members club at storied mainstay Quo Vadis. London, I’ve concluded, rewards saying yes.
Miraculously, I was not hung over from the previous night’s adventures, but we’ll skip straight to lunch since my breakfast of matcha and yogurt was unremarkable. This airy bistro, housed in an old Victorian building, is a fun, buzzy new addition to Old Street’s restaurant scene. I’d call its cuisine “post-British.” Its succulent, melt-in-your-mouth pork chop was one of the best I’ve had, served with a sharp hit of whole-grain mustard and jus-braised greens. I also loved the chunion (cheese and onion) puff, and the pork and cuttlefish chorizo; the pickleback martini is a more dignified version of the dive-bar throwback. The restaurant, while gorgeously outfitted, was boiling and smoky inside from the live-fire cooking, yet none of us wanted to leave. Heaven is good conversation over a table crowded with delicious things.
Drinks (and snacks): The Seven Stars
The food at this historic Holborn spot is excellent, it’s home to a famously spoiled cat (now second-generation) wearing an Elizabethan ruff, and the cozy dining rooms feel more like a grandmother’s living room than a commercial establishment. I could happily lose an entire rainy afternoon here, drinking cider and sampling dishes from the blackboard menu.
Cycene was, perhaps, the most memorable meal of my trip. Its tasting menu, from chef Taz Sarhane, feels historical and transportive in spirit and decidedly modern in execution, celebrating aged meats, foraged ingredients, and English terroir with remarkable precision. Many elements are pickled, cured, and fermented. The evening begins at the downstairs bar with cocktails, charcuterie, and a rich broth made with pork feet before moving through the kitchen for a tour of the pleasures to come; then, you’re whisked into a candlelit dining room where tomato-butter-topped scallops, jewel-like duck breast, and breathtaking desserts unfold before you over nearly four hours. Best to go with someone whose company you really enjoy.
Fergus Henderson’s legendary restaurant remains a house of meat worship and nose-to-tail dining, and also a case study of beauty in restraint: lobster toast, roast bone marrow, Welsh rarebit, braised lamb, and fresh-baked madeleines; adding a gin fizz, glass of wine, or martini feels fitting. We lingered at our long, many-coursed, boozy lunch here for nearly four hours (yes, another four-hour meal), a life-affirming practice that London still seems to encourage.
Run by French people, perfumed with bloomy-rind cheeses, and decorated with hundreds of neckties hanging from the ceiling, Le Beaujolais is the sort of place where you can post up and split multiple bottles over delectable fromage and ripped hunks of baguette. I was especially charmed by a framed letter from a regular who once drunkenly stole the restaurant’s enormous wooden table before returning it with an effusive handwritten apology. This is the kind of restaurant lore I live for.
No restaurant was recommended to me more frequently or enthusiastically than Mountain, the Basque-inspired Soho restaurant from chef Tomos Parry. I started with — and loved — the savory Olive + Almond cocktail — a tequila-and-sherry riff on a dirty martini. An earthy morel mushroom omelet with Spenwood cheese became the table favorite, alongside roasted duck, short ribs, paper-thin cured beef, and a bright, kumquat-studded crudo of pollock and monkfish. No wonder Dua Lipa loves this place.
Late-night drinks: A Bar With Shapes for a Name
We ended the night at A Bar With Shapes for a Name, a conceptual cocktail bar with a moniker to match. The alchemic drinks were worth the wait (even at an ungodly late hour) to get in, especially the Kazimir, made with clarified peach-yogurt vodka, absinthe, saline, and “recomposed” lime. A woman holding a trembling Chihuahua casually divulged trade secrets about a major toy company before disappearing into the night. I love London.
Where I want to go next time: Tatar Bunar, a new Ukrainian bistro with dill gintinis and a “borscht ceremony for two;” Casa Fofò, a seasonally driven restaurant in Hackney with a unique, affordable set-price menu; Cece’s for fun Italian with a side of glamour.
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