4 hours Ago By Evening Standard
You think you live in an echo chamber? Even my pharmacy is called the Devonshire. Though it opened late last year, the pub to end all seemed to dominate so much of this year — even jokes about “maybe you’ve heard of it?” quickly went stale — which spoke to a broader trend in 2024 eating. More than ever, this was the year of the hype restaurant.
They have been of varying quality, and of varying interest and originality. I am not, for instance, gasping for hot honey to make more menu appearances next year. I will not be trudging back to Camden for “funky” chips.
And can there really be any more burgers to smash? , of course, do not always benefit from the hype: the idiosyncratic Yellow Bittern — which I reviewed warmly, despite scant evidence of talent in the kitchen — took a kicking in much of the press for the owner’s reluctance to serve those not keen on boozing through a Monday lunchtime. Likely it’ll survive, although the chef’s insistence that all this criticism is down to bad journalism rather than his own failings does not suggest a man comfortable with introspection. We move on.
Besides the hype ventures, much of the year seemed marked by second acts; places expanding, known operators trying again, big groups land-grabbing. But in between this were some very good meals, beyond the 10 shared on the following pages. There was lunch at the Dew Drop Inn in Hurley, where now-departed chef Simon Bonwick plied everyone with tankards of whisky; afterwards, I tried a Baby Guinness for the first time after being goaded by a minor royal.
The train journey home was a palaver. This was also the year I discovered that I’ve eaten in Otto’s on Gray’s Inn Road 19 times over the years, a statistic that prompted a call to the GP to check on my arteries. Since a visit in March, I’ve barely been back but will rectify this next year; it is a palace of pressed duck and Dover sole and far too much wine.
That it didn’t make the list here is only because I wrote two pages on it back in March. Speaking of Dover — well, sort of — The Dover in Mayfair brought joy and often memory loss in equal measure. It is somewhere to escape to; to hide in; to luxuriate in.
Is anywhere in London offering such a sense of welcome and comfort? I have banned myself from martinis there, after one incident where a stool fell over and took me with it — I think it happened that way around — but you should go. There were happy times at Cut at 45 Park Lane and Sale e Pepe too, though no chair calamities. Where else was good? Sabor, which hardly needs saying; Sabor may be the most reliable restaurant in town.
Mind you, it’s a close run thing, as the same could be said of Bouchon Racine, a restaurant that dominated not this year but last. Newspaper coverage may have waned, but I’m not sure chef or front of house Dave Strauss gave a monkey’s about that to begin with. Lunch a couple of weeks back confirmed that its Lyonnaise cooking is still without compare.
I can think of few places I’d rather go. Fine dining this year was up and down. Up at Adam Handling’s Ugly Butterfly in , where its locally sourced credentials gently astonished my mother.
“So you were out in the garden picking herbs this morning, were you?” she jested with a waiter. “I was, madam,” he said cheerfully. It showed in the food.
Back in London, some of the food in Cornus was better than anything else on these pages — but the memory is mostly a mix between horror at the price and boredom. What will I be looking for in 2025? I’d like more restaurants like Mambow, where Abby Lee is determined to do her own thing. In an age of trend-chasing, she offers something of her own.
The hope is that Ben Murphy does something singular as well now that he’s left Launceston Place and the D&D handcuffs. I also want to see more from Macanese chef Ana Da Costa, left, whose brief residency at My Neighbours the Dumplings in Clapton so impressed; may she pop up elsewhere soon. There’s a great little pub she’d suit.
If only I could remember its name. The place is not a looker: it is the sort of wooden shed that B&Q sells, with a logo more usually found on a backpackers’ trail. But it is reassuring, sometimes, to know all the money must have gone into the food.
. And so came my fiancée Twiggy’s sceptical look when I suggested this place down by . “Legare?” she said, then, slowly, choosing her words: “But it’s .
” . Two in one? Isn’t that cheating? I won’t tell if you don’t. .
To eat, lots of raw tuna, red bream or cuttlefish, say, alongside things like grasshopper shavings, ground ants, agave worm salt. . In March, a friend of mine having a rough time — nothing romantic, something blacker — needed a cheering meal.
Lita seemed an obvious choice. . I’ve fallen out with the a couple of times, including once after a visit to the bar which didn’t warrant a review.
. No plastic trays, no lingering whiff of farts. The name is a conceit.
. We probably shouldn’t have ordered just about everything from the menu, but then you can’t choose your mistakes. .
Snacks of saucisson and cornichons, snails smeared with garlic and parsley paste. Oysters. A stunning “tarte Tatin”.
. No one can be expected to know everything. Still, you’d think a critic might be sure how to pronounce the name of the they were reviewing.
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