These aren’t menus; they are novels written in edible English. Expect seven courses that require a diagram to understand. “Foie gras sphere with a beetroot soil reduction” sounds like a science experiment. It tastes like heaven.
A surprising fact: many of these dinners feature a wardrobe requirement. Black tie isn’t just a suggestion; it’s a threat. I once saw a man turned away for wearing brown shoes. They were lovely shoes. But not lovely enough for 2026, apparently.
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You’ll also encounter the “Table of Six.” That’s code for “you will now make three new best friends or suffer in awkward silence.” By the third glass of Château Margaux, you’ll be trading life stories with a stranger who owns a hedge fund. Or a canal boat. It’s a lottery.
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Let’s talk venues. The Savoy is the king of cliché, but in the best way. It’s been doing this since 1889. Their dinner is so famous that if you don’t book by October, you might as well give up. You’ll be eating a microwave pizza at 11:58 PM. I’ve done it. It’s not recommended.
Then there’s Bob Bob Ricard. Why? Because every single table has a button that says “Press for Champagne.” Yes, you read that right. You press it, and a waiter appears as if summoned by a genie. It’s the most powerful button in London, outside of the Big Ben strike mechanism.
If you want to feel like James Bond, go to the Shard. You’re so high up that the fireworks look like tiny sparks from a cigarette lighter. The dinner might cost more than a used car, but you get a view of all of London. It’s like God’s own viewing platform, but with a starter of oysters and a bill that requires a second mortgage.
