The Scandinavian brand brings caviar bumps to the capital.
Punk did not start in a dining room. It snarled into life in London's basements and backrooms, stitched together at Vivienne Westwood's boutique on the King's Road, roared through the 100 Club and rattled every sticky-floored venue from Camden to Chelsea. It celebrated subversion and a refusal to play by the rules. So what would Sid Vicious of seminal Punk Band, the Sex Pistols, think of Punk Royale London, a tasting-menu transplant from Scandinavia that has landed not in Camden, where its avant-garde aesthetic might feel at home, but in Mayfair, a few strides from Fortnum & Manson and Piccadilly's bright lights? The brand arrives with a reputation for mischief from Stockholm, Copenhagen and Oslo, where horse meat served by servers in horse masks and cigarette ash sprinkled as garnish have made headlines. London's contribution to punk has always been equal parts attitude and art. Punk Royale aims to serve both, course by course.
The rules, such as they are, are made clear at the door. Phones are sealed in lockboxes, and the no-photos policy is non-negotiable. The dining room is a jumble of provocation and play. Glitter balls dangle overhead beside Barbie dolls. The framed wall art swerves from a portrait of Marco Pierre White, the chef who famously handed back his Michelin stars, to pop-culture ephemera that includes the South Park gang. It feels like a teenage bedroom curated by a seasoned set designer. Tables are tight, the lights are low, and the room hums at nightclub volume before the night has properly started.
Service is a performance. Preferences, allergies and intolerances are not discreetly whispered to the staff but scrawled across fat strips of sticky tape and plastered to chests and arms. I am "no pork, no alcohol" for the evening. We begin at the pass where vodka is theatrically decanted from a dented red kerosene can stencilled with four stars that look suspiciously Michelin. Guests are offered the most generous caviar bump imaginable. In keeping with my label, I pass on the booze and take the fish eggs neat, saline and plush, an early signal that the kitchen values punch and salt more than subtlety.
The soundtrack sets the tempo. Avril Lavigne slides into The Killers, Madonna and Natalie Imbruglia. As the meal progresses, the decibels sit at nightclub level, which is energising at first and occasionally wearying later on. If the music hints at a restless mood board rather than a singular thesis, the menu follows suit. A warm Egg Custard arrives crowned with caviar, rich and savoury-sweet, followed by a Curried Oyster that jolts awake with its spiced lick. There is a Pani Puri with a brisk, bright burst and a Razor Clam served in a briny seafood broth with a brittle tapioca crisp. The clam is the night's high point: clean and deftly seasoned. However, not every dish lands. A lone artichoke petal topped with half a raspberry feels more like a balancing act on the margins of the food cost spreadsheet than an idea fully realised.
Dishes are meted out on tiny spoons and thimble-sized cups that make us feel a little like Alice in Wonderland, shrunk down and racing to keep pace. As courses clock up, the tasting menu begins to blur, as almost twenty little hits are dispersed in a two-hour sitting. At one moment, we are force-fed oversized spoons of lobster tail. At another, we are invited to try the "licky plate," a dish that feels more prank than palate pleaser.
Elsewhere, a silken chicken liver pâté is handsomely executed, and guinea fowl appears with the only explanation of the night: "guinea fowl with a f*****g nice sauce." By dessert, we are sucking zero-alcohol wine from syringes while nibbling on peanut butter and jelly biscuits.
Midway through, the room explodes with black lights. Smoke creeps across the floor, lasers spear the haze, and neon paints the walls. The effect is undeniably fun, part basement rave, part restaurant. It is also a structural problem. When you hit the crescendo at the interval, where do you go next? The remaining courses cannot compete with the theatre, and the energy begins to dip into repetition.
Punk Royale provides diners with the sensation of being joyfully, knowingly pushed. It is hard not to wonder whether hidden cameras are rolling somewhere, beaming our reactions to a gleeful control room. It feels farcical at first, and then subversive, as Punk Royale London plays with its guests' expectations of what a fine dining experience should be.
For all the bluster, the team keeps things tight. Dishes land at high speed, yet plates are cleared with care. Water is topped up, requests are noted, and, crucially, my taped-on restrictions are acknowledged without judgment in a room that treats vodka as holy water. There is a satirical edge to the hospitality, but the mechanics are sound.
Does it amount to a satire of London's dining scene? In Mayfair, the question hovers over every course. The postcode's polish makes a fine foil for the restaurant's deliberate scruff, and that tension is the point. Punk Royale is not chasing a story-led tasting menu with a tidy narrative arc. It is riffing, sampling, provoking. When it works, the flavour hits are bold and the mischief feels earned.
What would Sid Vicious think? Perhaps he would sneer at the price of rebellion in W1 and still appreciate the noise. Punk Royale London takes the language of punk and translates it into a dining experience that tests comfort and expectation. It is audacious, it is daring, and, at times, it is a whole lot of fun. For those seeking quiet conversation and a tidy sequence of plates, look elsewhere. For those who like their dinner with a side of anarchy, this is a night out that London has been prepped for since 1976. Mayfair might not be Camden, but in this room, for a couple of hours, it does not have to be.
GO: Visit https://punkroyale.com for more information.