Cafe Clement London

We came for a weekend lunch and enjoyed the atmosphere. The food was decent but nothing memorable. Between the two of us, we shared the sea bass carpaccio (fresh), aubergine caponata (this was ok, didn't really pack a punch) and the lobster omelette (interesting flavour). I'd come back for a drink but not necessarily to eat.

One of London’s newest culinary gems. I had early dinner here with my family, and we started with oysters—among the best I’ve ever had—along with the tomato and anchovy salad and the ravioli. For our mains, we ordered the pappardelle with Swiss girolles, spatchcocked chicken, the Dorset Coast fish casserole, mashed potatoes, and a green salad. Everything we tried was outstanding. Last but certainly not least, the desserts did not disappoint: the chocolate soufflé and the lemon meringue were the perfect ending to an exceptional meal. The staff were incredibly warm, attentive, and welcoming. Compliments to the entire team!

What a great addition to the London restaurant scene! From the moment we arrived, everything felt welcoming and relaxed. The hosts were friendly and actually looked up to greet people rather than staring at a screen, checking reservations in a handwritten book instead. It's a small touch, but it made a good first impression The restaurant has a really nice buzz without having to blast music through the speakers, which is quite rare in central London these days. The large open kitchen brings a lot of energy to the room, and there's loads of natural light that slowly gives way to a cosy evening atmosphere as it gets dark outside. The menu is easy to read and has something for everyone. My highlights were the sea bass carpaccio and the lamb cutlets, both of which were excellent. The Bellinis are also worth ordering, made with actual peach purée rather than a sugary pre-made mix, which makes all the difference. A special mention to Avani, who looked after us brilliantly. She knew the menu inside out, gave great recommendations and was genuinely lovely throughout the evening. I can't wait to come back. If you get the chance, I'd definitely recommend sitting at the counter and watching the chefs in action. It's already become my new favourite restaurant in London, and judging by how busy it was, I'm pretty sure I'm not the only one. And if you can't get a reservation, don't worry, the Corner Shop next door, from the same team, is equally fantastic and well worth a visit.

This is an excellent eating place, flexible- you could either have a formal meal here or a quick meal in a casual smart setting. We enjoyed our trout and lamb chop. Hubby thought lamp was a small portion, whilst I thought my trout was a perfectly sized piece. Both superbly cooked, with professional and friendly service. Discretion service charge 15%, so read the bill before or if you want to tip differently.

One should never choose a restaurant because the owners are famous. Which is, naturally, exactly what we did. Armed with glowing reviews, an impressive culinary pedigree and two unsuspecting guests visiting from abroad, we marched into Café Clement expecting revelation. At the very least, a memorable lunch. We got… an interesting story. The steak tartare was genuinely lovely, theatrically served on the bone. Fresh, beautifully seasoned, and perhaps the best thing we ordered. The oysters were excellent too, although it would have been rather alarming had they not been in a restaurant of this calibre. Pleasant surprise: they were also reasonably priced. The Bellini was unexpectedly generous. It arrived looking almost comically oversized—as though someone had confused an elegant Venetian cocktail with a small aquarium. It looked faintly ridiculous, but after the first sip I found myself strangely grateful for the excess. Sometimes more really is more. Then came the mains. The duck was perfectly respectable. Not life-changing, but one could happily spend an evening in its company. The lamb ribs were enjoyable enough. The famous lamb cutlet, however—the one reviews insisted I simply had to order—deserves its own chapter. It arrived alone. Heroically alone. One magnificent cutlet placed precisely in the centre of an enormous white plate, with absolutely nothing to keep it company. No herbs. No vegetables. Not even a decorative leaf pretending to have a purpose. My grandmother would have burst into tears at the sight of such culinary loneliness. To be fair, it was a handsome cutlet. Thick. Juicy. Promising. And then came the salt. Not “slightly enthusiastic seasoning.” Not “the chef has a heavy hand.” This was a full-scale assault. I kept taking bites, convinced that perhaps the salt had accidentally landed on one unfortunate side. Surely no professional kitchen could season an entire cutlet so aggressively. Alas, this appeared to be a carefully planned operation. Every single bite tasted as though the Mediterranean had been reduced into a powder and lovingly rubbed into the meat. To the restaurant’s credit, they replaced it almost immediately. The replacement was raw. At that point I surrendered. I filled the emotional void with French fries (was this really why I came to one of London’s fashionable dining rooms?) and the lentil vinaigrette, which turned out to be charmingly fresh and unexpectedly delicious. Hazelnut ice cream was perfectly pleasant too. And that perhaps summarises the entire restaurant. Everything is… perfectly pleasant. Nothing is bad. Several things are genuinely good. But almost nothing has that elusive final touch—that last flourish that transforms competence into excitement. The culinary equivalent of remembering the punchline. As for the interior, I kept waiting for something to happen. The white walls feel strangely empty in a city overflowing with extraordinary art. Surely somewhere in London there is a painting looking for employment. The flower arrangements in the hotel lobby made a stronger impression than the dining room itself. One delightful surprise awaited outside the toilets: a third door simply labelled “Gender Neutral.” Civilisation, after all, is often measured not by its grand gestures, but by its quiet acts of consideration. It was a thoughtful touch, and one I genuinely appreciated. Would I return? Perhaps. But next time I’d order the tartare, the oysters, and a generous helping of optimism. The cutlet has already taken enough from me. Sorry, I forgot to take photos because we were chatting so much.