Savouring London One Bite At A Time

Wandering its streets, one can feel the rhythm of rock royalty, where Bowie reimagined the galaxies, and The Clash roared about revolution. But there’s also a quieter note, the lavender-scented alleys, hawthorn-dotted parks, and those absolute snug pubs that feel as though Tolkien might’ve designed them himself.

And then, the food. Oh, the food. Forget jokes about bland meat pies and boiled vegetables, London’s gastronomy scene is a feast fit for its cosmopolitan soul. My trip begins with a slice of gooey Eccles cake from a hidden bakery near Borough Market, its buttery layers flaking apart like the pages of an old novel. What I eat next is a tale of spice, sauce, and sublime adventures. Buckle up!

Turning onto Bruton Place, tucked away just off Mayfair’s ritzy Berkeley Square, feels a bit like discovering the city’s secret appendix, a pocket of calm where the usual suspects of luxury (think luxe sports cars and boutique heavyweights) give way to culinary curiosities and quaint gastronomic treasures. It’s here, in this almost hidden slice of London, where I find ‘The Cocochine’, a restaurant both understated and decadent in equal measure. Housed in a beautifully renovated four-storey townhouse, it is the beating heart of chef Larry Jayasekara’s world. Larry is a bona fide chef’s chef.

Prior to here, he was helming the kitchens of Gordon Ramsay’s Petrus, where Michelin stars weren’t so much achieved as casually worn, like the culinary equivalent of cufflinks. The building looks like a dream, it’s understated luxury with attention to detail in everything. Each element feels obsessive, and I mean that in the best way possible. From the heavy leather-clad handrails to the rows of hand-blown glassware, this is dining at its finest. Even the bathroom, an indulgence of marble and gleaming brass fixtures, feels like an invitation to linger.

I had scored a seat at the cosy chef’s table, an experience that’s part performance art and part communal feast. Larry’s culinary playground spans a regenerative farm at Rowler Estate in Northampton and exclusive fishing waters at Tanera Mor in Scotland’s Inner Hebrides. The Cocochine kitchen is his treasure chest, crammed with rare-breed meats, wild shellfish, flour milled on site, foraged goodies, and vegetables grown by an ex-Kew head gardener, basically, a food writer’s fever dream. The salad is a highlight for me; a dish that sticks with you, not just on the palate but in the mind. On my visit, the dish featured 64 ingredients, hand-picked from the estate, changing weekly with the whims of the soil. Diners like me get a printed list of every leaf, flower, and droplet on the plate, a kaleidoscope of flavours you didn’t know you needed. One bite might be a fried sage leaf with lemon verbena oil, another, violet pea flowers paired with parsnip crisps and rhubarb puree.

As I take a turn just off Oxford Street, on a street so quiet I almost forget I am in the perpetual churn of central London. I am here for ‘Chourangi’, a culinary time capsule that bridges centuries and continents, aka the flavours of Colonial Calcutta into modern-day London. The menu reads like a leather-bound diary of spice routes and trading ships, each dish echoing the crossroads of British, Portuguese, Chinese, and Armenian influences. I start with the Hakka-style lotus root and sweet potato chaat, a dish so texturally playful it is like a culinary yoga class, crisp and crunchy colliding with the luxurious melt of sweet potato, all tied together with an umami-rich hit of soy. Dinner that evening is pure theatre, set within the Peninsula Hotel by Hyde Park.

The Cantonese restaurant, sleek and glamorous, feels like stepping into another world. The evening begins  at Little Blue, a moody cocktail bar where every sip hints at espionage-level glamour. Inside the dining room, nods to Canton’s tea clipper trade are everywhere: chopstick rests shaped like sailing ships, rich textures, and gilded elegance. The menu? A masterful ode to Cantonese classics, reimagined with precision and flair. Every morning at Pavyllon ( I am staying at the Four Seasons Hotel London at Park Lane) feels like unwrapping a gift you didn’t know you needed , breakfast as an art form. It’s not just about eating; it’s performance meets pure indulgence.

Here, flavours aren’t just paired, they’re choreographed. Take the Matcha Pancakes, fluffy enough to rival a cloud. Or the Avocado ‘Croast,’ where a croissant cheekily ditches its dessert reputation to cradle creamy guacamole, a golden poached egg, and a confetti of rocket , part breakfast, part edible day spa. And then there’s the Arabic Omelette, all vibrant herbs and bold colours, a masterpiece. Even the Summer Flower Bagel feels too pretty to eat, with salmon lounging beneath a bright zucchini bloom. Indulgent indeed, but when in Mayfair…why not?

Walking into ‘Amaya’, tucked away in Halkin Arcade off Lowndes Street, feels more like entering a stage set for culinary magic. The sleek space, anchored by two glowing tandoors that seem to hum with possibility, has me hooked before I even sit down. First bite? A smoked chilli lamb chop that spoke in flames, a perfect char, smoky and electric, leaves me in no hurry to move on.

Then comes the paneer, house-made, wrapped in the softest hint of chilli. Sweet potatoes, griddled to caramelised perfection with a bite of tang, bring a cheerful disruption to the smoky intrigue. But it is the creamy cardamom chicken korma, paired with buttery sips of California Chardonnay, that locked it down. Days drift into deliciousness as I hop between incredible eateries, savouring everything from perfectly crisp fish and chips to fine dining surprises, each bite a postcard of Britain’s culinary evolution.

For my return, I have booked Virgin Atlantic Premium Economy, not just for the plush seat, but, let’s be honest, the food. And yes, I managed to get passes to the Clubhouse before heading out, where I am treated to an incredible spread of food. Comfort levels soar with honey mustard chicken and dreamy potato gratin, proving air travel doesn’t have to mean limp sandwiches followed by Cumberland sausage bathed in a rich Madeira sauce. Even 36,000 feet above, the airline’s Mile High Tea, a parade of sweet and savoury treasures, feel as indulgent as a Mayfair café.

A fizzy pour of ‘The Uncommon English Bubbly Rosé’ seals my mid-air feast. With a full belly and a happier heart, I touch down, already missing those skies and the sausages; I understand every bite is worth writing home about.