Chez Rose, London W1: ‘One of the dining highlights of 2026’

This is, of course, poudre aux yeux; until recently, this was Jason Atherton’s Little Social. Yet, with some strategically placed tables en terrasse, vintage mirrors, thoughtfully scattered doilies and, later, bread baskets, and what you have is France in the eye of the British beholder. Not the full ’Allo ’Allo-ification, but that elegant, sexy pastiche of everyday French dining that adult Brits gobble up like school kids devouring Milka chocolate.

Crepes Suzette, poulet rôti with vin jaune and morels, dover sole meuniere with Menton lemon… Ooh là là. If you can’t get into Bouchon Racine in Farringdon, go here instead. Chez Rose is by Spencer Metzger, whose CV is an embarrassment of edible riches: The Ritz and Row on 5 were his culinary sandpit, until Chez Rose allowed him to model a whole place in tribute to his late grandmother, Rosemary.

There are framed photos of the Metzger family around the room, and some items from her house, if diners would stop stealing them. Rosemary wasn’t French, and neither is Metzger, but within one mouthful of the first snack of red prawn and tomato on a crisp crostini, zinging with a mouthy lemon, which arrived on a pretty doily, it feels churlish to quibble.

In fact, if Metzger’s non-Frenchness upsets you, it just leaves more 70% chocolate souffle with vanilla ice-cream for the rest of us. The day-to-day cooking is in the hands of head chef Mark Catchpole, whose CV takes in Roganic, Attica and The Fat Duck. The menu is a single sheet with a pretty logo, then a list of temptations: wild mushroom persillade with preserved truffle; Orkney scallop with Café de Paris butter; Cornish cod with mussel sauce and samphire; Aylesbury duck breast with black figs; and a T-bone steak for two at £145.

Of a Friday lunchtime, and just weeks after opening, Chez Rose is lively. We arrive at midday and begin with a round of snacks: Cantabrian anchovies on a bed of young curd. There are anchovies, and then there are these Cantabrian anchovies: fat, glossy, smooth, salty; totally addictive.

The Brits have been scared off anchovies by whiskery, bitter, tinned monstrosities hurled over bad salade niçoise. Fishy purgatory.

Served like this at Chez Rose, though, they feel as sweet and naughty as chocolate profiteroles. The longsuffering Charles pops a plate of Vesuvius tomatoes on the order, recklessly suggesting we need vitamin C. It’s a good move.

This is a plate of the sweetest, ripest tomatoes we’ve tasted this summer – vivid red, yellow, purple-black – then chunks of ripe, sweet peach over a cool layer of stracciatella. Like all good French cooking, it is ruthless simplicity that blows your mind and has you pointing at the plate saying: “Aren’t tomatoes amazing?”, as if they’re a brand new invention.