Brunswick House

Chandeliers, Jazz, and Unforgettable Flavors!

In the audacious setting of London's bustling Vauxhall, Brunswick House emerges as an oasis of eclectic charm and culinary delight—a gritty diamond hidden amidst the greys of Nine Elms. The moment you step inside, it's like being plunged into a fantastical, overstuffed wonderland where every baroque chandelier vies for your attention under gilded ceilings while paintings—each attached with its own price tag—suggest this isn't just a meal, it's potential interior redecoration. But let us not be swayed by mere baubles when the real adventure lies on the plate. Potato bread emerges—a carbohydrate revelation—with a green garlic butter so good, it ought to apply for residency.

The funny thing about dinner at Brunswick is that it straddles the glorious line between surprise and déjà vu. The lamb, fragrant with spices, seesaws effortlessly alongside carefully curated dishes, while even simpler offerings like raw beef tartare are handled with diva-like care. And when you think service in hipster establishments is resigned to shrugging performances, Max and Arthur shatter expectations, guiding guests through menus with the eloquence of epicurean tour guides. Yes, there are tabloid-style whispers of an off day in service here and there—a disgruntled server or a wine warmth issue—but these are uncharacteristic hiccups in an otherwise symphonic performance. Dining at Brunswick House is, perhaps finally, replete with all deserved accolades: delicious, eccentric, a bit mad—and I'd rather it just stayed a smidgen sane. — Penelope Savory