Where To See & Be Seen In London

Nina is an Italian restaurant that brings much-needed excitement to Marylebone. People catwalk through this basement spot: sunglasses on, each nonchalantly tousled strand on their head hairsprayed into place, and slouchy, low-rise denims that will make it onto their photo dump alongside the over-papped tuna e melone. Wear your coolest ‘oh, this old thing?’ outfit, pose next to a tiny tini, and become friends with the staff by the end of the night.

This mysterious Mayfair hot spot hasn’t posted a single photo on its Instagram page since it opened in 2024, and it doesn’t need to. Because news travels fast, and the headline? The Dover is the ultimate place to be. It’s like Soho House took a crash course on how to be cooler, more exclusive, and make great Italian food. We’ve seen celebrities, big and small, cosy up in the bar or tuck away in the dining room. But more importantly, they’ve seen us too.

A Damson Madder clubhouse with more TikTok impressions than a tour of Shibuya, The Dreamery was already London’s hottest destination when it opened in the depths of winter. The De Beauvoir ice cream parlour and wine bar is all mirrors and a fantastical illustrated ceiling: it’s ideal for anyone who likes to let their followers know that they have taste, but also likes to let loose with a few sprinkles and a glass of cool gamay too.

Only one London restaurant occupies the Daily Mail sidebar like The Cow does. Alongside the Chiltern Firehouse (to which we wish a speedy recovery), this Notting Hill nepo-den attracts Coutts card holders like moths to a chandelier. It’s one of the only bars that appeals to professional winos as much as it does runway models and, thanks to the dingy aesthetic of its saloon bar, evenings can easily be lost to oysters and pints. Come early if you want to bed in, otherwise prepare to fight a generational Groucho Club member for a seat.

Daquise has been around for donkey’s years. It’s London’s oldest Polish restaurant and a certified classic for South Kensington locals and anyone with an interest in The Spectator and slabs of schnitzel. More recently it’s been co-opted by the Tabis and doily crew, 35mm boyfriends, and those with a semi-ironic interest in discovering their authentic selves via ladles of luminous borscht and shots of vodka at the end of a four-hour Thursday lunch.

A recent story about The River Café doing the rounds involves two ageing stalwarts going for an eventful smoke together mid-lunch. Google it, it’s a good one. Famous or not, The River Café makes everyone feel like a hall of fame inductee. There’s something about the light in this Hammersmith Italian institution. It floods the dining room, bounces off the neon pink oven, and exposes even the most subtle chin lift as it moves towards a slice of chocolate nemesis cake. Dinner is good. A 22°C lunch on the terrace is even better. No matter how regular you are, it’s forever the restaurant equivalent of turning left on a plane.

This former chippie in Stroud Green has what we like to call The Mescal Mentality—cig glued to lower lip, shorts with maximum quad exposure, leaning on a table, pint in hand, like you’ve never encountered cortisol since birth. Inside is mellow yellow and ideal for those that prioritise pintxo digestion, but the alfresco pavement out front offers the kind of vitamin D deficiency dissociation that can rarely be found this side of Gibraltar. Squeeze in, swig £3.50 vermouth, and promote London’s most beguiling It girl renaissance—the return of the flan.

 Every spring, Towpath comes out of hibernation and London’s baggy, striped linen elite descend on this canalside cafe near Haggerston station armed with Le Specs sunglasses and a pre-scripted excuse for why they’ve been offline for four hours on a Wednesday. Hot pink radishes are dipped in taramasalata, mallards get flirty on Regent’s Canal, and when it’s sunny, everyone leans back and lets their scorching reptilian brains order a second glass of orange wine. Warning: high likelihood of discussing canal boat ownership ahead.

This is where the Guinness tribe hangs out. Pints in hand, ready to launch into a TED talk about clean lines at a moment's notice, seemingly in a job where they can afford N.Peal cashmere but still have a three-hour lunch break at British restaurant and pub, The Devonshire. Order the beef cheek suet pudding, pretend you know the lyrics to Kneecap’s ‘Get Your Brits Out’, and approach splitting the G like it’s an Olympic sport—you’ll fit right in.

You could complete an east London wine bar bingo card at Ken’s—a Glassette-feeling dinner party of a spot, full of people actually enjoying orange wine (or convincingly pretending to). Plates of pan con tomate are dutifully ignored in favour of the ‘pisslist’ with its ‘fun skinsys’ section. Inside candles drip wax, outside cigarette butts are flicked onto the Exmouth Market pavement. The walls are distressed, as are the gorgeous young crowd still twiddling gildas at closing time.