Google: 3.9 · 332 reviews
Carbone
New York City’s Carbone is synonymous with A-listers and fashionable figures, with mere mortal foodies refreshing their emails over and over again in the hopes of securing a coveted reservation. Now, a palpable sense of excitement—and smugness—hangs in London’s air, as the city has gained its own outpost of the scene-y eatery. Upstairs, tables are laden in crisp tablecloths, and the bar casts a golden light over rich cerulean and scarlet decor; below, a buzzy cocktail lounge flows into a sultry, subterranean dining space with its recognizable checkered floor; diners on the terrace, meanwhile, people-watch over this corner of Grosvenor Square. The front-of-house team struts between banquettes in velvety Zac Posen-designed tuxedos as heaping bread baskets hit tables, and Parmesan wheels are ceremoniously picked at until they crumble in chunks onto side plates. Yes, the signature spicy rigatoni vodka is on the menu, and the gargantuan melt-in-the-mouth meatballs are not to be missed either. Discreet stomach rubbing and wine-swirling often ensue before the main event lands in the center of the table: in my case, the veal Parmesan with its tomato-and-cheese toppings glowing under the light of an Art Deco table lamp. Just when you’re ready to admit defeat, the team will persuade you to indulge one final time with a spread of desserts on a shimmering silver platter beside you. Say yes. This is the kind of restaurant where you can lose hours in a mesmerizing, sweet-scented crimson blur and still not be ready to leave. —Connor Sturges
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New York City’s Carbone is synonymous with A-listers and fashionable figures, with mere mortal foodies refreshing their emails over and over again in the hopes of securing a coveted reservation. Now, a palpable sense of excitement—and smugness—hangs in London’s air, as the city has gained its own outpost of the scene-y eatery. Upstairs, tables are laden in crisp tablecloths, and the bar casts a golden light over rich cerulean and scarlet decor; below, a buzzy cocktail lounge flows into a sultry, subterranean dining space with its recognizable checkered floor; diners on the terrace, meanwhile, people-watch over this corner of Grosvenor Square.
The front-of-house team struts between banquettes in velvety Zac Posen-designed tuxedos as heaping bread baskets hit tables, and Parmesan wheels are ceremoniously picked at until they crumble in chunks onto side plates. Yes, the signature spicy rigatoni vodka is on the menu, and the gargantuan melt-in-the-mouth meatballs are not to be missed either. Discreet stomach rubbing and wine-swirling often ensue before the main event lands in the center of the table: in my case, the veal Parmesan with its tomato-and-cheese toppings glowing under the light of an Art Deco table lamp.
Just when you’re ready to admit defeat, the team will persuade you to indulge one final time with a spread of desserts on a shimmering silver platter beside you. Say yes. This is the kind of restaurant where you can lose hours in a mesmerizing, sweet-scented crimson blur and still not be ready to leave.
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