It is a rare pleasure to stumble upon a restaurant that manages to weave nostalgia, ambition, and culinary finesse into a truly unique experience. Twenty8 NoMad, the newly minted jewel in the crown of the superlative NoMad London, achieves precisely this, conjuring the buccaneering spirit of New York’s brasserie culture while rooting itself firmly in the historic grandeur of Covent Garden’s Bow Street Magistrates’ Court. Named for the felicitous coincidence of its address—28 Bow Street, echoing NoMad New York’s 28th Street—this is a venue that wears its transatlantic credentials with a swagger, tempered by a distinctly London polish. Think bowler hats meeting yellow taxis and you’re halfway there.
Twenty8 NoMad delivers a dining experience that is at once comfortingly familiar and thrillingly novel. The room itself, reimagined by Martin Brudnizki Design Studio, is a study in moody elegance. A wood-burning hearth crackles at its heart, casting a warm glow over rattan accents and lush greenery that evoke the palm courts of a bygone era. Yet there’s nothing stuffy here; the atmosphere hums with a playful charm, as if inviting you to linger over a martini and a secret. It’s a setting that demands a certain panache from its dishes and drinks—and, mercifully, Twenty8 NoMad delivers.
We began with a trio of starters – indulgent times, alas – that set the tone for the evening’s indulgence. The NoMad Salad was a refreshing overture, its simplicity belying a meticulous balance of textures and flavours. The garlic flatbread, a nod to the doughy alchemy of Little Italy’s finest pizzerias, arrived warm and fragrant, its golden crust crowned with a generous swoop of burrata that melted into creamy decadence with each bite.
It was a dish that demanded to be shared between my chum Henry and I, though I confess to a selfish urge to hoard it. The frisée salad, meanwhile, was a masterclass in restraint, using pork belly and poached egg to the best endeavours of those fine ingredients. Each starter was a testament to the kitchen’s ability to elevate the familiar into the sublime.
Mains were no less impressive. The arrival of the fully stuffed lobster roll was nothing short of a revelation. This was no miserly portion but a lavish, buttery hymn to New England excess, the sweet, tender lobster spilling from a perfectly toasted bun. It was the kind of dish that makes you pause, fork in mid-air, to marvel at its audacity. One could almost hear the distant crash of Atlantic waves. By contrast, the steak frites with peppercorn sauce was a resolute nod to French brasserie tradition, executed with a New Yorker’s unapologetic gusto, and commensurate portion size.
Napkin firmly tucked in, I began, and was not disappointed. The dry-aged Galician Blond steak, kissed by the fire of that aforementioned hearth, arrived with a crusty char that gave way to a blushing, juicy interior. The frites – properly chunky, not those mediocre impostors – were crisp and golden, while the peppercorn sauce was a triumph. I found myself recalling a long-ago conversation about the virtues of mixed peppercorns, a spice once prized as currency; here, it was worth its weight in gold.
The bar, under the aegis of Leo Robitschek, is no mere afterthought. The Penicillin cocktail, a modern New York classic, was a smoky, gingery revelation, its balance of scotch and honey soothing the soul as much as the palate. A closing espresso martini, meanwhile, was a jolt of sophistication; it seemed to whisper, “Stay up all night.” It was all I could do not to.
No less impressive was the wine selection, curated by the exceptional Alessia Farrarello, whose knowledge and warmth transformed the evening into something truly convivial. Her recommendation of a New York Cabernet Franc was a masterstroke; its bold, earthy notes with hints of dark fruit paired exquisitely with the steak, grounding the dish in a distinctly American terroir. The Empire Estate Brut rosé, a sparkling gem from the Finger Lakes, brought a crisp, celebratory fizz to the lobster roll, its delicate bubbles cutting through the richness with effortless grace.
If there is a quibble, it is that the restaurant’s ambition occasionally outpaces its execution. The dining room, while gorgeous and soaring, can feel curiously quiet on a midweek lunchtime, as if London hasn’t yet caught up with its brilliance. A tiramisu was ordered, and never appeared; I would have liked to have tried it, but deadlines meant that we had to retreat. But this is a minor bum note in an otherwise harmonious symphony.
Twenty8 NoMad is a love letter to New York, penned in the language of French brasseries and delivered with a distinctly London flourish. In a city brimming with dining options, this is one that demands your attention—and, quite possibly, your heart.
Twenty8 at Nomad London, 28 Bow Street, London WC2E 7AW. For more information, and for bookings, please visit www.hilton.com.
Interior photos by Mark Anthony Fox, Food photos by Christian Barnett
