Lunch this particular Saturday started on a bit of a sad note. To get to the restaurant from Shaftesbury Avenue requires walking past the site of 10 Greek Street, once one of the most reliable restaurants in Soho, now sadly empty and forlorn. I know, it's 2026, lots of places are struggling and restaurants open and close all the time but I though 10 Greek Street would be there forever, a kind of Soho stalwart bistro like Duck Soup or Antidote Wine Bar or Noble Rot, always available for a glass of something natural and some reasonably-priced small plates. Anyway, life goes on, and after welcoming the lovely Impala into the Soho fold we also have Osteria Vibrato, a buzzy, already-popular little spot aiming to do for Italian food what Impala did for, well, whatever the cuisine at Impala is. After squeezing onto our table (the food may be Italian but the distance between the tables is very Parisian Bistro) I was presented with an ice-cold martini in a pretty little frozen glass, so on the martini front at least they're doing everything right. Decent sourdough, crispbreads and olives were also very nice - a surprising amount of flavour from the bread/crackers, and the miniature olives were little flavour bombs. These were all unordered, but weren't free - a cover charge of £3pp appeared on the bill later, which is either fine or a minor irritant depending on your point of view. Would an experience at Osteria Vibrato be measurably worse if guests were allowed to skip the bread and olives? It's hard to imagine it would. Sicilian red prawns were the first menu item to arrive. Drizzled in excellent olive oil (you really do notice the quality of some of the ingredients at Osteria Vibrato), they were sweet and salty and although perhaps not the very best prawns I've ever had in my life, could certainly have a shot at the top 10. They were also £4 each (£16 for 4) for these fairly small beasties so I made absolutely sure there was no head juice left un-snaffled to get my money's worth. Sardines stuffed with pine nuts and raisins felt like the kind of dish the ancient Romans would have enjoyed, although from what I can gather from my ancient Roman food history they would have eaten the whole fish - bones, tails and all - which we didn't do. Still a fun little dish though. If this doesn't look like a lot of sage and butter agnolotti for £28 then it's because they let us split two portions between the four of us, which was nice. I mean there's still a debate as to whether 6 agnolotti are worth £14 either, but they were certainly very well made and incredibly moreish. Whole grilled sole was absolutely beautiful, and at £39 for a whole fish, actually noticeably better value than a lot of the other dishes. Simply cooked, drizzled with olive oil and capers and seasoned well, the meat lifted off the bone in satisfying meaty chunks, and in fact I've just noticed on the bill they only actually charged us £35 for this so it was even better value than I thought. If you go to Osteria Vibrato, if they have the sole, you should order it. The mixed grill was, I'm told, nicely done too - chunks of lamb and veal (I think - I didn't try this one) cooked pink piled on top of roast potatoes. And yes £95 is a lot for a T-bone steak but it was expertly cooked with a good, dark, crunchy char and lovely strong, smoky beef flavour. Sides were enjoyable too - a pommes boulangère affair (sorry, patate al forno) with a nice crunchy top above rich, beef-stock soaked layered potato, and even a green salad was noticeable for a good sharp dressing and bold seasoning. Or maybe by that point we were just desperate for something that wasn't a giant slab of meat. I have heard the Osteria Vibrato amaretti described variously as "a must-order" and "the best you'll ever have". So maybe they were having an off day or accidentally missed an ingredient because despite clearly being straight out of the oven they were distressingly dry, to the extent they were actually quite difficult to swallow. Or maybe real fresh Italian amaretti are supposed to taste like hot bags of sand. Either way, I'm not sure I can recommend them. Very odd. Buckwheat, fig and almond cake was better though, as were a selection of house gelato and sorbets I forgot to take photos of. And credit where credit's due, staff were lovely and helpful and attentive, which more than made up for the occasional niggle I had with the food. It's clearly a very slick little operation and has definitely already got a fanbase - tables are quite hard to come by and the place was full this particular Saturday lunchtime. Maybe I've just been spoiled recently with some literally flawless meals, and my standards were unreasonably high. It's perhaps just unfortunate timing on behalf of Osteria Vibrato and that, objectively, the place has a lot going for it. Don't get me wrong, it is very good, but I think at these prices (£136pp which included a rather cheeky 14% service charge) it should be something approaching great, and really only the sole reached that level. Still, they seem to be doing something right, as I say, as the place seems to be running almost full occupancy, so well done them. If I was going to spend that amount of money again, I'd go to Impala. But as my Grandma used to say, it wouldn't do if we were all the same, would it? 7/10

If you know what to look for, you can work out the restaurant lineage of Impala just from a quick scan of the menu. Firstly, and most importantly, you want to try every last item - a feat frustratingly unavailable unless you're eating with at least ten of your friends. Between four of us last week, I think we managed to try about half of what was on offer, and looking back on the menu now some of the things we had to leave unordered still make me quite sad. cull yaw, an extraordinary product which means only one thing: this is a Super 8 restaurant. Together with Brat, Smoking Goat, Kiln and Mountain, places that are regularly spoken about as some of the best in London, a Super 8 restaurant is a stamp of quality like almost no other, and as close to a guarantee that you're going to have a good time that exists in town. And so yes, inevitably, Impala is brilliant - blindingly, uncompromisingly brilliant - a showcase of style and technique that thrills from the very first moment to the very last. We began with martinis, because if any way you can, you should. These arrived alongside two types of bread - fluffy aish baladi which was warm and crackly and lovely and absolutely would have been the best bread I'd eaten all week if it wasn't for the other type, honey and olive oil, which was closer to fine French pastry than anything so humble as a house bread. Dipped in the grassy olive oil and some kind of salty chilli chutney it was absolutely superb - the kind of thing it would be way too easy to fill up on before the rest of the food arrived. It took a great deal of self-control not to. I couldn't visit a Super 8 restaurant without ordering some cull yaw, in the form of these delicate little pastries a bit like samosas. The mutton flavour was rich and powerful, and a light dusting of icing sugar, which I was worried might be a bit weird, seemed to enhance the overall effect somehow - very clever stuff. That little dollop of sauce by the way is pickled walnut, which was very lovely too. Borek had a supremely light and delicate pastry with all lovely little crisps and folds, and a fantastic spinach/feta filling. You get the impression that everything that makes it onto the menu at Impala is considered equally worthy as everything else - there's no "token" veggie dish, there are just dishes that happen to be veggie. Ftira looked as good as it tasted, and it tasted amazing. Yet another masterclass in baking (the bread was warm and soft inside with a beautiful crust) was filled with a delightful avocado mixture and surrounded with a wreath of super fresh, and nicely dressed, herbs and edible flowers. I'm sure Impala wouldn't do anything as trite as design a dish for Instagram deliberately, but they may well have done it accidentally just by virtue of having an artist's eye for presentation. Each new dish to appear maintained the same stunning standard. Sweetbreads are always a direct route to my heart but these were - or rather "this was", a giant single specimen - absolutely breathtaking. The sauce was deeply flavoured, glossy and perfectly balanced, the shredded onion salad crunchy and full of flavour but of course the real star was the offal itself, tasting of wood smoke and marmite and absolutely unimprovable. In any other restaurant I'd describe them as a "must-order" but must-orders are a bit useless when everything else is just as good. Mackerel was a dainty little fillet, with moist, meaty flesh and a delicate crisp skin. It came with two separate - and excellent - sauces, one earthy walnut puree and one shockingly good taramasalata which, again, anywhere else would be one of the highlights of the meal. That Impala can make a tarama this good and have it appear as one of two sauces in a dish and nowhere else on the menu just shows how much talent this place has in the kitchen. Birds tongue pasta came soaked in an oxtail ragu that had clearly been a long time in the making given the rich, complex flavour of it. Again, anywhere else this would be a dish to recommend to anyone you met for the next few days; at Impala it's just yet another thing to knock you sideways. Pasta had a lovely bite too. Perhaps the only dish that didn't completely overwhelm with brilliance was a roast duck, which only managed to be excellent rather than exceptional. Perhaps it was just in comparison to everything else, but although it was cooked perfectly pink and had a nicely rendered skin, the molasses sauce was a little bit one-note and one or two pieces was enough before you started looking for interest elsewhere. Also at £68 for a quarter it was not exactly value either - you can get a whole one for £133 at Park Chinois in Mayfair. Perhaps not an entirely fair comparison, but still. Monkfish wrapped in grape leaves, smokey and perfectly seasoned, were meaty and rewarding and about as good as an example as you will find anywhere. But even more impressive than the fish itself were the accompanying vegetables, particularly a leaf of kale soaked in a completely wonderful umami-rich jus of some kind and still crunchy and crisp from the grill. All the myriad of techniques on display, from the baking to grilling to sauce-making, were absolutely nailed over and over again. Even a tomato salad was impressive - clearly using very good tomatoes, expertly dressed and topped with more crunchy fresh herbs. Beautiful colours on it too. And still Impala had one final trick up its sleeve - this date and pistachio custard tart which put every other similar tart in London to shame. Of course the texture of the custard and the base were both impeccable, but you'd expect that of somewhere like this. The real stroke of genius was just a touch extra of salt in the mixture, which rather than proving a distraction just boosted the flavours to stratospheric levels. We'd eaten a lot by this point, but three portions of this tart all disappeared in record time. Dorian soared north of £200 a head and though was extremely enjoyable it wasn't twice as good as Impala - in fact it wasn't quite as good. 10/10

Every new generation of Londoner has to go through the phase of being bewildered and bedazzled by the various lavish stalls and speciality producers at Borough Market, shell out a small fortune for a selection of wildly unrelated items they're entirely unable to turn into a cohesive dinner, and spend a weekend or two queuing for a chorizo roll (or whatever the snack du jour is at any particular moment) before eventually declaring the Market "just for the tourists these days". It's a rite of passage, like getting ripped off at a Brick Lane curry house, or finally finding the correct exit at Piccadilly Circus tube. And we can moan all we like (another truly London pastime) but there's many of us still hold a soft spot in our hearts for the Market. Yes, at the weekends it's wildly overpopulated, you can't really do any proper food shopping there and if I see one more chocolate-covered strawberry I'll want to scream, but the fact is, scattered around the place amongst the crowds and the noise are undoubtedly some of the best restaurants in the capital. Just off the top of my head there's OMA and Agora, Padella, Camille, Elliot's, Bancone, Rambutan, Kolae, Akara, Mei Mei, Bao, Barrafina, Parrillan - surely there's no other 4.5 acres (thank you Google) of land in Western Europe so blessed with incredible places to eat. And now there's one more. Tucked above the Globe pub in a couple of bijou dining rooms oozing with character (if not elbow room) is Kismet, a "Meyhane" restaurant (think Ottoman-empire izakaya, serving raki instead of sake) run by a youthful, enthusiastic bunch of people who really seem to know what they're doing. I've yet to visit Turkey, but the first thing my friend noticed as we squeezed onto our table was the little diner-style napkin dispenser, a vital part of the Turkish restaurant experience, I was assured. Of the food, the first to arrive was atom, a strained yoghurt dish soaked in butter that couldn't have been any better to compliment the house flatbread. Perhaps I could have done with a bit more of the advertised chilli hit - I could see the little red flakes but couldn't really taste them - but then this is almost certainly just a personal preference thing. Also begging to be scooped up by more of that crunchy, salty bread (why is homemade bread such a rarity in Turkish/Cypriot restaurants in London? Even some of the bigger name mangal places in Dalston I've seen them opening packets of precooked stuff) is a wonderful house tarama, rich and rewarding and silky smooth enough by itself but topped with a generous layer of puréed cod's roe, which lifted it onto another level. Oh but we were just getting started. I have yet to meet a piece of fried liver I didn't like, so I am perhaps not the best person to objectively rate this yaprak ciğer dish, but I can't remember eating a better bit of offal in years. The liver itself was soft and bouncy with not a hint of dryness - closer to the texture of sweetbreads than anything else. A delicate breadcrumbed coating was greaseless and crisp with a gorgeous golden colour. It was also seasoned perfectly, and combined with a fresh onion salad made it the kind of thing you'll be talking to your friends about for days after. If you go to Kismet, get the liver and onions. Also brilliant were the şeftali kebabi, bouncy little parcels of minced pork (I think) and lamb (definitely) held together in caul fat and grilled to gentle smokey perfection without being too charred or bitter. Lots of places in London do şeftali, and some do them very well indeed. I've rarely found any as accomplished as these, and the layer of soft flatbread quietly soaking up the juices from the resting meat was a wonderful little bonus. Finally there were two sides, one our choice and one theirs. Our pick was nothing more radical than a house green salad, but the measure of any good restaurant is a seemingly effortless capacity to turn the mundane into the exceptional. So yes maybe this was just a little plate of lettuce and onions but the dressing was salty and vinegary and oily in all the right amounts and it was a genuine delight to eat. We were persuaded, though, to also try their patates kızartması, not because we were particularly hungry or even that curious to try even this thrusting young restaurant's take on fried potatoes, but because our waiter insisted they were his favourite dish on the menu and that were something close to a must-order. What arrived was a sad, flabby little tray of pallid potato shapes so lacking in the life and fire and finesse shown in the rest of the menu it was like they came from a different restaurant entirely. Many years ago, I attempted to make chips at home. I cooked them too long at too low a temperature, used the wrong kind of oil and the wrong type of potatoes, and they still tasted better than these things. I have no idea why they're on the menu. şeftali like that, and tarama and atom like that, and make stunning bread like that, and for all those reasons this little spot is a new London must-visit restaurant, equally delighting long-time foodie cynics as well as whichever tourists happen to be passing through that day. And speaking of tourists, judging by the gaggle waiting their turn to take a photo next to the rear door of the Globe, Bridget Jones' picture-book London still lives strong in the international collective conscience. Only in movie world could a junior assistant at a small London publishing house afford a 1-bedroom flat in Borough Market, even in the early noughties, but who cares - this is an idealised London, and Kismet is tantalisingly close to an ideal restaurant, and in this weird arrangement the two sit very happily together as ambassadors for the city. Above a Victorian pub in an old food market, magic happens, on and off the screen. This wasn't my invite, but we didn't see the bill. Would have been something like £50/head though, which is incredibly reasonable. EDIT: I'm reliably informed that the kebabs above were not şeftali but kofte, which had been swapped in that day and the menu not updated. Still very nice, anyway, and all my same compliments still apply!

Before I was able to assess the authenticity or otherwise of the food at Khao Bird, I could at least appreciate the ambient temperatures in the dining hall were at genuine Thai levels. It's not really their fault that we visited during one of the hottest day's of London's seemingly endless heatwave, but it really is getting to the stage that if your place doesn't have actual AC (or if it's not turned up (down?) enough) then I'm really going to have to think twice on whether I want to spend time there, no matter how good the food is. So it's thanks to the food at Khao Bird being rather good indeed that I was able to - temporarily - put up with the raging temperatures and for a few moments on a Sunday afternoon enjoy an interesting variety of Northern Thai BBQ (their own description of their own food). But not before tucking into one of these bad boys, a spicy margarita made with mezcal and a pleasingly significant dose of chilli which blew open the taste buds in preparation for the food to follow. At this point I should say that yes, I know the photos are awful - it was dark in there as well as hot, and I was only halfheartedly paying attention to my blogging responsibilities as I was meeting a friend from Liverpool for dinner and didn't want to embarrass him too much with my Big Noisy Camera. But these (I promise) are crispy pigs ears, just the right balance of crunchy and chewy, served with an addictive nam pla and a fantastic nibble with the margarita. I've been served such a huge variety of things over the years sharing the name laab that I honestly am not sure what is the core laabness that makes a laab a laab other than, more often than not, a borderline hallucinatory hit of chilli. This is steak tartare and Campari (full marks for imagination at least) and was both so good and so hot that I was forced to take tiny mouthfuls of it every 10 minutes or so, the breaks just enough for the burning to dip from acute pain to a dull throb, then back again. Crispy tofu skin on top provided a nice crunch to offset the raw beef texture and various other bits of fresh veg and spices rounded the whole thing off nicely. Not your traditional laab, then - if such a thing even exists - but well worth an order if you're a chilli fiend. Another Thai staple, Som Tam, used Isle of White tomatoes and local "shrub veg" (your guess is as good as mine but I like to think someone's got their foraging on) with the usual tamarind-chilli mixture and was finished with "our family honey", which was a very nice touch. The trick, I imagine, in running a successful Thai restaurant outside of Thailand is knowing when to substitute local ingredients and when to stick to imported Thai originals. I love the idea of creating a Thai salad with English garden vegetables and authentic imported fish sauce, especially when the result is as good as this. really don't want to see it believe me) was a giant steaming bowl of grilled chicken khao soi, a northern Thai curry that involved a rich coconut broth, egg noodles two ways, boiled and crisped, pickled mustard greens and chilli. Even without the chicken this would have been a fantastically enjoyable thing to slurp down, but the chicken managed to hold the crisp and char of the coals despite being dunked in the sauce, and thanks to an aggressive marinade the flesh was salty and firm right to he bone - not a hint of dryness. Impressive stuff, and well worth £23 considering the amount of work that had clearly gone into it. 8/10

I'm acutely aware that a review of a (hitherto) obscure restaurant in a small town in Spain isn't going to be one of my most read posts of the year. Back in the days when I was doing 6 or 7 posts a month, slipping the odd leftfield location in now and again just made things a bit more interesting for me - perhaps if I was lucky would provide some kind of inspiration for one or two readers, but it would soon be followed-up by somewhere a bit more Central London and I wouldn't lose too many of you along the way. More recently though, with my new routine of one or two posts a month, these "extra" reviews carry a bit more weight, and run the risk of shedding even more of my dwindling readership. Believe me, I was as shocked as anyone it turned out so good, although perhaps I shouldn't have been. There is a fairly long tradition of serious Japanese food in Spain - Barcelona has a number of very well-regarded sushi joints run by skilled ex-pats, and if the only other barrier to top Japanese food is the availability of top-quality seafood then, well, Spain's got that covered and then some. These are Guillardeau no.2 oysters, served naturally and presented perfectly, plump and fresh but zingingly lean - not a hint of that unpleasant creaminess that can occasionally appear in the summer months. I quite fancied some lemon to go with the second one but they brought out a homemade yuzu sauce which was exceptional - amazing to think this dressing wasn't even on the menu and they'd magicked it up on request. Also exceptional is Can Koya's tempura game. There's very little place to hide with tempura - the batter has to be light and greaseless enough to create a crunch but substantial enough to coat all the ingredients (in this case a medley of early summer vegetables) thoroughly. I've only been to Japan once but I don't remember anywhere doing a better version of vegetable tempura there or anywhere else - this really was the best of Japanese technique applied to top Spanish produce, to stunning effect. One of the constantly astonishing things about eating out in Spain is how often top-tier ingredients are served at prices that would barely be a cover charge in the UK. This tray of sashimi moriawase consisted of 4 chunks of toro (fatty tuna), 4 of akami (lean tuna) and a neat little pile of salmon, and is yours (well, was mine) for €24. I probably should have ordered another. And on that same theme, this is a langoustine maki roll, boasting huge chunks of soft, sweet langoustine inside fluffy, body-temperature rice - a complete sushi masterclass. As with everything else before (and everything to come), there was that perfect marriage between serious Japanese sushi technique and the finest available Spanish (or in this case, probably Scottish) produce. Again, I could have happily polished off another portion of this, and probably another after that. Yakitori scallops were off-menu, €4 each and an absolute delight. Like any Japanese restaurant worth its salt, the kitchen at Can Koya is nimble enough to work in any extra bits and pieces of top seafood come in that day, and these were absolutely belting, presented unashamedly and confidently straight-up, with no dressing or flummery (although we did still have the ponzu dip from the sashimi to use). Finally, bonito tuna tataki, probably the most unexpected and quirky dish of the evening but just as impressive as anything else in its own way. Some attractively frilled and gently seared chunks of tuna came arranged next to a kind of ajoblanco sauce and a little clump of glazed vegetables. This was Japanese-Spanish fusion food done literally, but to great effect - an intelligent, seasonal dish marrying local and Japanese aesthetics. Very clever stuff. With a bottle of cava to wash it all down the bill came to just under €55/head (about £47) - an insanely reasonable amount of money for even a middling Japanese restaurant, never mind one so thoughtful and accomplished as this. As soon as it was all over, I made plans to return, and did, only to find it closed. Another thing I should have known is to never trust Google Maps opening hours in Spain. But I'll try again, because restaurants like this, and value like this, deserves to be enjoyed as often as possible. 9/10