London is chaotic, electric, and its restaurants cover a lot of ground. But in all that, there’s never been anywhere quite like Punk Royale. Born in Stockholm in 2015, this riotous fine dining concept built a cult following across Scandinavia before landing on Sackville Street. Its cobalt-blue door, stamped with the restaurant’s caviar-tin logo, gives little away, and you could easily stroll straight past, blissfully unaware of the madness unfolding on the other side.
The moment we arrive we’re marched to the open kitchen, introduced to the chefs and given a fist-sized bump of caviar, chased with a shot of ice-cold vodka poured from a jerry can. It perfectly sets the tone. From there, things only escalate; phones are locked away, lights are dimmed, and what started as a relatively structured dinner morphs into something closer to a club night, complete with strobe lighting, booming music, and an electrifying and infectious atmosphere. Somewhere between the endless courses and fog machine bursts, this cosy dining room transforms into the best night out we’ve had in months.
Inside, it’s a windowless bunker, but the walls fluoresce with neon faces. The cast of South Park finds a home by Bertie Bassett, while Marco Pierre White hangs over the pass, overlooking Punk Royale’s shirtless ‘Babe of the Week’ pinned to the fridge. It’s a touch claustrophobic, and more than a little disorienting, as we’re completely shut off from the outside world.
It would be easy for Punk Royale to lean entirely into the spectacle. But it doesn’t. What follows are 20+ courses of some of the most inventive and wilfully unhinged cooking in the capital. Mushroom consommé arrives topped with leek foam in a miniature pint glass, billed, naturally, as 'Swedish Guinness'. Beetroot tartare is finished with herbes de Provence ash scattered from a stubbed-out joint, and an artists' palette of accompaniments, think chives, fried capers, and an egg yolk emulsion, that we stir through with a tiny spoon. Deshelled mussels are placed, with characteristic mischief, in a clam shell, topped with a moreish spiced chowder split with herb oil, and smiley faces of foie gras, paired with dessert wine that we sip from syringes. Sure, not everything lands. A steamed ‘Egg Royale’ custard tips into oversalted territory, especially beneath smoked caviar, whilst madeleines lack their usual airy height. But Punk Royale takes risks, slinging out bold and brash plates full of big flavours.
At £220 a head, it’s undeniably a splurge, but when you factor in the number of courses, what feels like free-flowing drinks, and the full-scale entertainment, it begins to look rather more reasonable.
Punk Royale isn’t for everyone. If the prospect of being spoon-fed by a topless waiter somewhere inside a fog-machine haze sounds like a personal nightmare, then by all means give it a miss. But for those willing to embrace the madness, it may well be the most fun you have at a restaurant this year. Possibly ever.