Vine Bar London

Italian Excellence: Authentic Cuisine Awaits

Within moments of stepping into Vine Bar, one is treated to a feeling as if being enveloped in the warm embrace of an Italian nonna's kitchen—peasant wine barrels stacked in corners, and the gentle strains of Andrew Scott's guitar promising a night of culinary charm. Mind you, "Italian" can range from lavish yet reclining leather dining chairs to cardboard-textured pizzas, depending on one's luck, but Roberto's den is closer to magic than mere mortadellas and mozzarella. Roberto—charming and always bespectacled with a readiness for hospitality—has a role reminiscent of a young Vito Corleone, determined and cinematically engaging. The care with which he sources earthy mushrooms for his risotto and ensures the carbonara is no less of a holy culinary relic, parallels only with the exquisite charm reflected not just in La Dolce Vita re-runs but in the twinkle in everyday conversations.

Yet, what makes the Vine Bar sing isn't just the notes of flavor from bream swimming in shared plates or the bewildering basil panna cotta that proves how greens aren’t always America's forgotten food group. It's the ethos liven'd by bartenders who glide in waistcoats, offering generous whisks of garnet-hued wines as if decreeing nightly indulgence. True, a misplaced tirade about unruly doors sullies somewhat but juxtapose this unfortunate waltz with a gleeful mosaic of praises for lasagna that's purportedly envied by Neapolitan nonnas, well, one forgives. Here, even melancholy finds a foodie antidote worthy of adventure. A reservation at this quasi-intimate haven assures not merely a meal but an ensconced extravaganza adorned with tiresome truffle ravioli, lingering still like an opera encore long after dinner. Skeptics may come because of its neighborhood feel; they'll linger due to contagious conviviality and delectable, deliberate drama on each plate—especially when the biggest fright is not dining at all. — Penelope Savory