“This 1 Trend Will Ruin London’s Restaurants”

White paint, glossy floors, steel fixtures, clean lines, bare walls. Psychiatric ward or minimalist venue layout? Unsure. The minimalist trend has seeped from home interiors into our restaurants and cafés, and in my very strong, very grand opinion, it is one of the worst bugs that London’s dining scene could catch.

In defence of maximalism

Maximalism is not just a trend I am advocating for here; it is something that should never be lost — a trait of a space that invites character, inspiration, and conversation. Maximalism is defined as embracing a vibrant, exuberant style: bold colours, intricate patterns, and eclectic combinations. But there is more to it than that.

To embrace maximalism is to tell a story through design. Each poster, painting, brushstroke, framed trinket holds the power to bear a double meaning — to wrap a menu or a cocktail or a date in the clutch of an alternate presence. To remind us that the space we are in is not just our own, but a collection of the lives lived inside it, shaped by the people who built it.

Spaces are not empty; they are not liminal — especially not the spaces in which we eat and drink. They are essential to the storytelling of our lives. When I walk into a coffee shop and am met with undressed walls and white LED lights, there is a sense of absence. Perhaps it makes me more likely to order a double shot, but for a moment, my brain feels fear, like static on a television at close range. Where has our playfulness gone? Why are we taking ourselves so seriously?

Spaces are not empty; they are not liminal — especially not the spaces in which we eat and drink. They are essential to the storytelling of our lives.

Sitting down to eat in a minimalist restaurant is one of the most uncomfortable experiences I can stomach. Eating is vulnerable, almost animalistic. When I sit down to feed myself, I long to feel safe, backed, held in the company of others. In a minimalist space, I feel the opposite. It feels like surveillance. Like exposure. Like an emptiness repelling comfort.

For example

The best restaurants — my favourites, at least — do not prioritise visual sterility. They embrace ornamentation (think: Berners Tavern, Circolo Popolare). They flirt with mild pandemonium.

The Prince of Greenwich is my favourite example. The entire pub is head to toe adorned in souvenirs, trinkets, and statues of a life well lived. It is the embodiment of its eccentric and overtly warm owner. A museum of comfort. An ode to the human experience.

The Prince of Greenwich

It is the embodiment of its eccentric and overtly warm owner. A museum of comfort. An ode to the human experience.

Pizza Pomodoro, another favourite of mine, would not be what it is without its personality — in fact, I doubt it would still be around. It has been over forty years, and it remains one of the most loved underground restaurants in London. Not because of the food — the pizza is good, fine — but because the walls are plastered with posters, pictures, and faces of the visitors who have stumbled into that basement. It is iconic because of the way Ciro, the owner, has superimposed himself onto the space. Without it, the live music, the celebrity sightings, and the positivity the restaurant is home to would not radiate off the walls in the same way.

Berner’s Tavern, Fitzrovia