Why Hausu Might Be the Best New Listening Bar in London

There’s something somewhat comforting about an early reservation. Arriving at a dimly lit though near-empty dining room evokes a strange feeling of anticipation which vibrates in the walls. You begin dinner with a hushed whisper, end it in a chesty bravado. That’s what my reservation at Hausu felt like: the sweet promise of a 6 pm booking, everyone fresh off work, drifting in to meet old friends, partners, groups, dates. By the time the room filled, it was clear that no two tables were there for the same reason. Hausu is a place that absorbs any occasion.

The atmosphere is built upon by an open flame sparking somewhere in the heart of the room, a performance that makes the counter seating even more enviable as you realise the kitchen sits sunken behind it. Flames flare, cast-iron pans hiss, and the chefs move in a calm dance as they prepare what you will eventually order. It develops on the intimacy of the space, a shared floor plan without theatrics or ego.

There’s an air of cosmopolitan wonder here. Sitting in the dining room, catching brief glimpses of the silver overground trains sliding into the platform through the high corner windows, you might sense the faint intimations of New York. Urban exteriors meet polished interiors and present an effortless charm, an orange-lit gastronomic oasis in the sea of South London. It’s not difficult to assume that the menu might promise an array of small plates; for me, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that.

To drink, I began with — you guessed it — a dirty martini, and a phenomenal one at that. A classic that can go wrong so quickly, but executed perfectly. As you’ll find throughout the meal, that’s Hausu’s rhythm: highlighting simplicity while folding in lesser-seen ingredients with a humble confidence.

Flames flare, cast-iron pans hiss, and the chefs move in a calm dance as they prepare what you will eventually order. It develops on the intimacy of the space, a shared floor plan without theatrics or ego.

You can’t go wrong with a cocktail, but it’d be a crime to walk away without at least a peek at the wine list. There are over 100 bottles on this list, but every one earns its place. The sommelier, my server told me, has tried every single bottle. Each month she writes a letter in the wine list highlighting a winemaker to watch. It’s more than curated; it’s thoughtful, personal, and somehow incredibly easy to navigate.

I was reminded of how important simplicity is. That something that is fried should not necessarily be heavy or stodgy, as seen in the revered scallop and prawn toast. The beets tasted colourful and fresh, while the leeks offered a creamy balance to the other earthy veg populating the table. 

The pumpkin, while not my favourite as it leaned into the all-familiar trend of “too-much-hot-honey”, was still a lesson in presentation, in highlighting the hero and drawing attention to the table. It practically begged for more forks. 

To me, a true test of how much a restaurant cares about the dishes they present is how they treat the little things.

We also tested the lamb agnolotti with a beautifully bright green sauce, so obviously homemade in its thick and doughy parcel encasing a tender lamb. In hopes of not getting too specific, it is reminiscent of a plate had in the lofty kitchen dining room of a Tuscan farmhouse, barefoot and makeupless, just cool enough for a light sweater.