Benihana Covent Garden

Unforgettable Entertainment with Delectable Teppanyaki

Benihana in Covent Garden offers a tactile, veritable spectacle that effortlessly coaxes you into its bustling narrative. This isn't merely dining, but no less than theatre where teppanyaki wizards attired in assured headbands, such as the ever-charming Chefs Kevin and Richie, cascade prawns into your plate with a deft flick of their spatulas whilst orchestrating that legendary onion volcano we all romanticise about. There’s a triumph here in sheer consistency, avoiding the overeager chef syndrome with a balanced showmanship that leaves one's inner culinary critic both charmed and satiated. One might chuckle (albeit a costly chuckle) at the uncanny art of levying an exorbitant £4.50 for sprucing up fried rice with a pair of eggs—hats off to the fiscal wizardry on display—but Benihana has zero subtlety when nosediving into showbiz bright lights, and why not? It’s what we’re here for after all.

For telephone-number prices, expect slices of steak arguably too thin for fork friendliness—indeed, one might longingly salute across the table to a thespian lonely sirloin yearning for drama, albeit imbued with a flavor pièce de résistance. The staple ambiance cheers on gleefully under a liturgical medley of curious tourists and fastidious foodies alike, beckoning regular pilgrimages from London’s hungry stage. Yet, as heavenly tempura clouds descend, a cloud of London guile tempers enthusiasm—hundred-pound tabs without sides startle the wallet more than frail Chopin notes at dusk. Capacity intervenes with clockwork-American efficiency, ensuring one revolts only through an evenly clasped dripping fork when presumably marked by pandemic swells. Regardless, each indulgence promises a perky narrative splashed with good humor and great aplomb—even if our echoing irony masks a yearn for bolder spices, spent from miles afar during Frappuccino-less teenage odysseys. — Penelope Savory