Santo Mare

£60 - £80 / Seafood, Italian, Mediterranean

W, 87-89 George St, London

Opening hours

12PM-11PM

Sunday 12PM-11PM
Monday 12PM-11PM
Tuesday 12PM-11PM
Wednesday 12PM-11PM
Thursday 12PM-11PM
Friday 12PM-11PM
Saturday 12PM-11PM

Authentic Italian Delight, Seafood Excellence

On stepping into Santo Mare, nestled amidst the frenetic bustle of London's gastronomic landscape, one is greeted by a blend of muted refinement paired with authentic indulgence—a trait more often romanticized than truly found. This restaurant, tipped as an apex predator in its piscine offerings, strives to whisk patrons away to Italy's sun-soaked shores without the bother of misplaced passports. Their extensive medley of sea-sourced luxuries—drawn from the enchanted depths of the Mediterranean—are shamelessly fresh, capable of casting a spell even on the fiercest of culinary skeptics. If you chance upon the gnocchi with red shrimp or the iconic pistachio ice cream (served with what seems like divine intervention), clutch them tightly; not unlike certain high-art paintings, they have this peculiar ability to render visitors mute and dewy-eyed.

And yet, beneath its polished veneer, Santo Mare isn’t entirely free from culinary hiccups that can mottle the experience. The much-touted tiramisu, assembled ardently at your table, might need a tad more zing lest it transitions from spectacle to mere gondola mime show. Disturbingly, pricing takes the liberty of tumbling this leisurely escapade squarely back into Piccadilly Circus, bartering familiarity for gold. Tiny, self-inflicted foibles—awkward service moments juxtaposed with streaks of clumsy earnestness—cast shadows that clairvoyantly hint at greater potential. Yet, for all its unrivaled dining spectacles and those psychedelic notes of Italy wafting through the chef’s creations, this establishment feels poised precariously on the cusp; perhaps needing just a pinch of palatable polish over pecuniary emphasis. Shall I go again? Maybe. For where else to hear musings of Italy delicately tangled with exquisite filaments of London? But oh, such aromas relieve us lightly and price scarcer—the paradoxes linger like a fruitcake we forget before Christmas. — Penelope Savory