Those who treat dinner as theatre
Fine dining without the fine-dining manners
A no-phones, live-in-the-moment experience
The mildly unhinged
Scandinavian food lovers who like it unpolished
Anyone who’d rather live a fever dream than sit through a quiet dinner
Anyone who can handle their drink

Punk Royale was founded in Stockholm in 2015 by chefs Joakim Almqvist and Kalle Nilsson — both from fine-dining backgrounds, both clearly bored of it. What began as a small experiment in anarchy grew into a cult Scandinavian export, with the Copenhagen outpost later earning Michelin praise. The London site is their first outside the Nordics.

A bare, black door with a small seal of the brand’s logo stands in the way of a truly chaotic night. It’s like a speakeasy. As you enter, you’re in a Shoreditch-esque design — exposed ceilings, white tablecloths, and an open kitchen. The art dressed around the room gives into the punk point of view: neon Shrigley-style drawings beside South Park prints and graffiti portraits of Vivienne Westwood. For some this might be an eyesore. For others, who have been raised in the era of the internet, it’s a window into the creators’ minds — influenced by all of brainrot they’ve witnessed on their algorithm.

Phones are sealed away in boxes before the night kicks off and it’s a relief. You’re in the moment and there’s no option to whip your phone out every time there’s a performance happening. That way, you feel less self conscious to go with the flow. And when the flow really did start to go, thanks to endless pours of vino, other diners would interact with each other — talking, laughing, waving their napkins in the air during music intervals.

There’s always a gap between hearing about something and experiencing it yourself, but the reviews calling this bonkers is the exact word I’d use. You pinch an udder for hand soap, lick caviar off your hand like you’ve been handed a bump, and lick remoulade seductively off a plate whilst My Neck, My Back starts playing. It’s all very chronically online — though I would say it does lean into cringe, millennial-territory. For us younger and demure ladies who like to not do too much, alcohol is needed before we can fully let our hair down. Although at Punk Royale, a lack of alcohol is the last of your worries.

Midway through, the lights dim and the walls ignite in neon. Strobe lights, loud music, alcohol coursing through everyone’s bloodstream. Then you remember: this is Mayfair. Punk, yes. Royale? Less so. This would get so much more love in East London as opposed to the Mayfair crowd. And judging by Grace Dent’s recent critique for The Guardian, I can imagine it must have been hard for her to give into the occasion. Not everything is for everyone and that’s okay.

The staff are genuinely lovely — relaxed, good-humoured, clearly in on the joke as they take their shirts off to start dancing and endearingly referring to you as a motherfucker. My kind of people.

I love how so many reviews had little to mention about the details because they didn’t want to ‘spoil the occasion’. Like myself, the reason why they couldn’t share too much is because they were plied with so many drinks in one sitting — from red to white wine to vodka to champagne to lager. By the time I managed to stumble out of the building, get a cab home, endure the paralysis the next day and finally gather the strength to put pen to paper - everything became a bit of a blur.

There are a minimum of twenty small plate courses, bite size and a round of drinks coming every few courses with intention to cleanse the palette. I am not sure anyone should be mixing that many alcohols in one sitting, however. This isn’t for the faint of heart.

We start with caviar on our hands and a cold shot of vodka poured from a gasoline can — because of course. Then foie gras, oysters, guinea fowl, and whatever else I’ve since forgotten. The flavours are wildly varied; the atmosphere is maximalist, so why wouldn’t the food be? The cooking has a distinctly Scandinavian backbone — fish-heavy, smoky, subdued and sometimes laced with dill. Very nordic and homely. Presentation is equally irreverent: tupperware lids for plates, plastic gloves for sensory eating, syringes for sauce. I can already see some traditional critics feeling some type of way before entering the room.

That said, it's not without flaw. Pacing at Punk Royale could have gone a mile. Courses were arriving at such a speed that you’re on to a glass of red wine before you’ve finished the beer or the champagne. The meal peaks initially with gorgeous caviar and subtle tickles on your tongue but dulls once the maximalism really sets off. It’s mainly because you’ve had such little time to savour the flavour, neutralise the palette and make room for a shimmy — by the second half, everything becomes one big, expensive blur in your mouth.

I always like to review a restaurant in context of its function and purpose. Yes, there are flaws with the pacing of flavours coming at you that lead to a confused hodge-podge palette by the end. But if you ever need an evening that reminds you how unserious dining can be — Punk Royale is your place for pure nonsense, decent flavours and plenty of drinks to get you hammered.

Punk Royale
4 Heddon Street, Mayfair, London W1B 4BS
020 7494 9544
punkroyale.co.uk

20-course tasting menu with beverage pairing £220 per person; service charge extra
Available Tue–Sat, 18:00–23:00
Dress code: Come as you are – your outfit doesn’t define your night