Perched nine floors above Broadgate Circle at Los Mochis City, Luna Omakase follows in the footsteps of its sibling Juno - London’s smallest restaurant. Luna continues the superlatives, now claiming the title of the city’s highest omakase, maintaining the same intimate, and incredibly immersive, experience.
But where Juno is all heart, Luna is more polished and sophisticated, tailored for the slick City crowd. Hidden away behind unassuming sliding doors, you'd likely miss Luna completely, until those doors are dramatically pulled back, revealing a panoramic view of the London skyline.
Every detail feels considered and intentional. 12 seats gather around a polished horseshoe counter, each backed by ink-splashed artwork that mimics one of the moon’s 12 cycles. Places are pristinely set with chopsticks, fresh ginger and handwritten name cards. It’s these little touches that exude exclusivity, perhaps justifying the £230-a-head price tag.
Dinner begins with the resonating sound of a gong, and for two hours, we watch in awe as the trio of chefs cook and assemble with deft precision. There’s a seamless rhythm to the evening - a well-practiced routine that feels anything but new, despite Luna having only just opened.
Los Mochis’ Mexican influences remain present, but more subtle, with Luna focusing on a more traditional omakase experience across its 12 courses. There’s a personal history woven throughout head chef Leonard Tanyag’s almost autobiographical menu, as we’re regaled with stories from his childhood; a Wagyu sando pays homage to the lunchbox treats his mother used to make - though hers swapped the Wagyu and wasabi leaf for less-glamorous Spam. Crispy sweet potato tacos, reminiscent of his time in the US, are given the Luna treatment, stuffing the wispy, layered shells with salty caviar.
A blue fin tuna tartare is fatty and moreish, with bursts of citrus, layered between aged wasabi and caviar. It brings the evenings first touches of theatricality, arriving in a charcoal-black sphere that floods the room with dry ice once opened. More drama follows, like fish grilled over binchotan charcoal, and Wagyu sizzled and seared on a wedge of Himalayan salt. The evening ends with a final bang (and another ring of the gong), courtesy of a miso caramel soufflé. It’s perfectly risen, and light as air, finished with the playful kick of a wasabi ice cream.
Prices match the exclusive setting, and limited seating, but by the time you take your final bite of soufflé, you’ll be ready to do it all over again.