Food & Drink

JW Marriott Venice

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One of the challenges of our era is to find a balance of using precious downtime to travel and discover new places whilst recharging for the frenetic pace of normal life. This is even more testing when it’s a city break but I might have found a balance amongst the digital haze. I love Venice, but if there is one quibble with this magnificent city, it’s that its popularity combined with its architectural nature can make the overall experience feel quite intense, compact and busy. The recently-opened JW Marriott Venice Resort and Spa is the perfect antidote to the hustle and bustle of this rich destination. A place that is far from…

Sexy Fish, W1J

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It’s a warm and sunny Wednesday evening, and my first experience of Sexy Fish restaurant in Mayfair, one of Richard Caring’s newest business ventures. I had heard a great deal about it from various friends and colleagues, and my intrigue began to pique as I approached Berkeley Square and saw the now-infamous red-roofed terrace in Mayfair. I arrive 10 minutes early and decide to wait for my friend and fellow diner inside. When you first walk into Sexy Fish, it’s hard not to notice the decadence in the decor. There’s a school of crystal-looking fish sculptures hanging above the bar, what I assume was coral reefs and seaweed painted on…

Roomers Hotel and Cocktail Bar

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There are a lot of sequined items in my wardrobe. One morning, after a night trying to smoke Viagra in a shisha, one particularly brilliant male friend of mine came downstairs to breakfast wearing them all at once, like some sort of bejeweled butterfly from a grey chrysalis amongst last night’s fag ash. Roomers was a place for some sequins I thought, albeit one item’s worth, with more cocktails and less Viagra. Roomers in Frankfurt, Deutschland, is a ‘lifestyle’ hotel (exchange lifestyle for sexy, or even just sex). It’s in the ‘Design Hotel’ league, having been created by Grübel (BMW on the résumé) and the Romanian designer Oana Rosen, and…

Quattro Passi

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I remember watching the restaurant scene in the opening of American Psycho in my late teens thinking, ‘I wonder if the Upper East Side is actually like that?’ ‘Are the plates really the size of a platter?’ ‘Is the food symmetrical?’ ‘Do the waiters still serve the dishes with silver service perfection and in unison, like well-rehearsed Russian synchronised swimmers?’ When I perused the menu for Quattro Passi, I decided that it would play host to 2015’s fabled editorial meeting between myself and The Review’s Editor-in-Chief. One useless piece of information: rarely do you meet an individual with such a diehard appreciation of only one cinematic genre (horror). Laith Al-Kaisy…

Oblix

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There’s an equal measure of pros and cons to not living in London. For instance, I’m always last to know about a new launch in the city: con. I can travel at leisure through Bristol without having to delouse: pro. What it does mean, though, is that our London-based editorial team get the pick of the litter when it comes to new London eateries. Before I could even pick up the phone, our voracious editor and his digital girlfriend had already explored and reviewed every restaurant that The Shard has crammed into its lofty 72 floors. Arguably, this doesn’t happen often. There are indeed enough comestibles in London for us…

Celeste, SW1

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I haven’t been eating out much lately. I’ve been hiding, avoiding terrorism on public transport, and preparing for global economic meltdown and the third world war. You think I’m pulling your bratwurst, but I’ve never penned a more unsmiling opening paragraph to a food review. Except that one about the maître d’, the chambermaid, and the hair in my soup. Actually, that’s not the reason I haven’t been eating out – but it’s more believable than the truth. You see, I took my brother to Pollen Street Social for his birthday, and it fundamentally changed me. It’s frayed the fabric of my being. It’s left me ashamed, victimised, confused, unsure…

Interview: Pierre Koffmann

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Pierre Koffmann was born in Tarbes, France, in 1948. After working the kitchens in Strasbourg and Toulon, he relocated to London in 1970, working with Michel Roux and Albert Roux at Le Gavroche. He soon took the role of head chef at the Roux’s Waterside Inn in Bray, in 1972, before finally opening his own restaurant, La Tante Claire, in 1977. Koffmann won much acclaim and many accolades during this time, not least three Michelin stars. After a brief hiatus, Koffmann returned to cooking in 2010, opening the eponymous Koffmann’s at The Berkeley – a far more informal affair, focusing less on Michelin stars and more on the chef’s culinary…

Up amongst the stars at Kozue, Park Hyatt

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Amy McNichol My knowledge of Japanese cuisine was only a smidgen above zero when I touched down in Tokyo in October. Despite the popularity of machine-rolled sushi flogged in supermarkets and the flurry of ramen houses that have popped up in recent years, the mass market (me included) is only familiar with a narrow cross section of Japanese cuisine in the UK. With this in mind, I tried to widen my horizons and see what the heck else I could trough during my time there. On my first night in the capital I washed barbecued beef, onions and bean sprouts down with Asahi. That was at a street stall with…

Hawksmoor – SW3

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As someone that spent almost a year living in central London, I don’t consider myself an insider or an outsider. I sort of declare guerrilla warfare on London once a month, opting for a skirmish campaign of fast cars, drinking and debauchery all crammed into one night. Then, having enacted my raucous campaign of lavish and salacious behaviour, I retreat with the spoils of war, back to sleepy and secluded Somerset. Usually with a weighty hangover in tow and a dent in the Dunhill wallet. London, for me, is a good time girl, a fille de joie, enjoyed that much more due to my fleeting relationship in her gin-soaked bosom….

Top Dishes of the Year

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I’ve never given anything ten out of ten. Not food, not sex, not a book, not a film, not an album, and certainly not a restaurant. Imagine the existential impasse, the cultural cul-de-sac of grading things immaculately.  What would be left, except to die the perfect death? To me, nine out of ten is the highest possible accolade. If you get a nine, that’s an idiot’s ten. But don’t be fooled – it’s still not perfect. Perfection can only be judged once you’ve tried everything else. When I’m on my deathbed, only then will I go back and revise all the eights and nines, because only then will I have…