Mountain Beak Street — Restaurant in London

The levels of disappointment cannot be underestimated for a Michelin star'd establishment. I actually left the venue thinking I had read the Michelin guide incorrectly - because surely this establishment can't have been granted their review recently.

Upon arrival into a crowded doorway, we were spotted by several employees, but not recognised at all. There was no host to greet us at the door. Eventually a member of the waiting staff team greeted us, and informed us that our host would be with us shortly. When the host came, he gave the most limp apology for the wait and seated us at our table.

Patrons be warned that this "family style" concept sweeping the UK restaurant - to cram as many tables as possible into expensive sq footage, had not been lost upon Mountain. You will be elbow to elbow with fellow customers. I was tapped several times by the foot of the lady opposite me, but adjacent to my wife. The atmosphere is certainly subjective - but be aware that this is the reality.

Following on from the poor start, we were offered water, and then left alone for a period of time that extended the courtesy of reading the menu. It is after all a single page and simple enough to digest. Eventually our waiter came and took our order. He was polite and apologised for the extended wait.

The food is "good", but I can think of dozens of "tapas" restaurants without awards that are better in London. Compared to other Michelin rated places, of which I have been to more than I can count across the planet, without hyperbole - this is easily ranked at the bottom.

The Oysters and Turbot were excellent, credit were it is due. The cured meat selection and almond paste was really tasty. The Oxtail is very well cooked and the jus was tasty. The Duck was cooked well and seasoned nicely, but our side dishes of potatoes (were hard) and winter roasted veg were "meh". Never has the internet suckered in so many people as it has with the spider crab omelette. It's perfectly, and I mean expertly cooked, but its an omelette. A £25 omelette I might add.

Midway through our meal and with the Oysters, cured meats and Turbot starting to revive our experience - a member of the waiting team asked if we minded moving tables to a different part of the restaurant as they want to use the table next to ours and seat a group of 4. The gentleman was polite in his request and equally so in my decline - but this is just unacceptable at this level of restaurant.

After our intro courses, our plates where swapped for fresh ones, and the young woman who performed this task did so with all the warmth of a Soviet POW. I wouldn't say thrown down, but I would say more finesse could have been used - and perhaps my smile could have been met with eye contact and a mirroring technique?

The bill came and the service charge of 12.5% (respectively low for this market and kudos for that) was politely removed after my request to do so. Service in the UK is so far behind the America's, and I cannot understand why this service charge has crept into our culture (especially as we have a minimum wage which applies to service staff, unlike the USA). It should be warranted and not simply expected.

The young lady brought Nicola the food and bev manager to the table and she was as polite and understanding as could be. A real credit to the business. The following day, another senior manage called to apologise and offered whatever he could to accommodate our return. Also very understanding and apologetic.

Our bill, with one alcoholic beverage and the rest consisting of food, was £210, and there are simply too many choices in a city the size of London for me to visit again.

Everyone is entitled to a bad day and this for Mountain may have been theirs. I appreciate that they considered my feedback verbally and hope they use it to produce a more polished display...

From the moment you step into this bastion of flame-kissed gastronomy, it's clear you're in for something more than a meal but an extraordinary experience. The restaurant doesn't just serve food—it orchestrates a culinary experience that tells a story of sustainability, craft, and unbridled creativity. The evening began with their signature Mountain Martini, a revelatory concoction that sets the tone with crystalline clarity and herbaceous notes that whisper of alpine meadows. With this drink in hand and being in London, it's not hard to embody a little 007. This prelude to the feast ahead was the perfect palate awakener. The parade of small plates that followed was nothing short of a masterclass in flavor architecture. Grilled chorizo arrived with a perfect char, releasing its smoky paprika essence with each bite. Anchovies with citrus demonstrated the kitchen's deft hand—the bright acidity cutting through the fish's natural brininess in a dance of balanced flavors. Perhaps the most audacious offering was the squid paired with black pudding—a coupling that shouldn't work on paper but delivers a harmonious duet of land and sea on the plate. The squid, tender with just enough resistance, complemented the rich, earthy notes of the pudding in a magical alchemy. The grilled duck showcased the true mastery of open flame cooking here. Rendered to perfection with skin that crackles and flesh that yields its juices willingly, it's a testament to the kitchen's understanding of heat and timing. Those flares I heard and saw in the open kitchen was those unctuous fat juices hittin' the wooden embers below. Each flame leaving its mark with the perfect amount on char. Grilled asparagus topped with a raw egg was deceptively simple yet profound—the egg coating the charred spears as it slowly warmed, creating a sauce of remarkable richness. This dish alone would bring me back. The short rib, another triumph of fire and patience, fell apart like the perfect death drop dance move at the mere suggestion of a fork. Not sure what spells were being cast in that kitchen because I'm still trying to figure out how they achieved those deeply concentrated flavors that tasted like hours spent marinating in something for hours before meeting the flames. Wood-fired rice arrived infused with smoke and studded with seasonal treasures, while the grilled vegetables—each bearing the kiss of flame—tasted of sunshine and earth. Throughout the meal, I sipped a glass of Alicante from Telmo Rodriguez, a Spanish wine whose mineral backbone and fruit-forward character provided the perfect companion to the parade of flame-touched delicacies. The service deserves special mention—attentive without hovering, knowledgeable without pretension. Each server moved with the assured grace of someone who understands they're part of something special, guiding repeat diners or newbies through the menu's nuances with genuine enthusiasm. The restaurant's commitment to farm-to-table principles isn't just marketing—it's evident in the vivid flavors and thoughtful sourcing. Each ingredient is treated with reverence, transformed through fire rather than masked by unnecessary complexity. This wasn't just dinner; it was a celebration of what happens when culinary talent meets elemental cooking methods. The team at Mountain has created something that feels both primal and sophisticated—a rare achievement that makes this establishment not just worth visiting, but worth celebrating. You've created a fan and I...

Some places just rock and there's nothing more to be said. Mountain is one of these places. But you can't get elite status on Yelp by giving a review that says "this place rocks" so allow me to elaborate a little on the many rocking aspects of mountain. It rocks because it's on Beak st. Beak st is in the heart of Soho and it's a cool street. It rocks because it looks the business. Big, wine bottle lined windows allow the hoi polloi to gawp enviously at lucky punters in buzzy, busy, seductive, functional but swish innards. Kitchen people cook openly at the back whilst diners voraciously attack whatever they produce. From the outside you want to be in here. It rocks because any worries about a too cool for school reception on arrival are swiftly put to bed by a wonderfully warm welcome from people who understand hospitality is first and foremost a human endeavour where nice concrete walls come joint 15th. It rocks because the menu is groaning with choice which doesn't paralyse simply because you know immediately you are going to order it all. It rocks because the Friesian cow bresaola looks and tastes like the finest Iberico ham. If you’re a practicing Jew or Muslim this is mad news. It rocks because the sommelier spends time chatting without automatically pointing to the white Burgundy. It rocks because all the staff look out for each other. They all love what they do and they all deliver with the confidence and joy only people who are loving what they do can do. They were all delighted to talk about the food and that rocks. It rocks because wood fired rice. A dish that will have you hacking away at the pieces melded to the bowl like some an old Cornish miner . It rocks because mutton chops. It rocks because they slather the Dover Sole in a simple lemon and butter sauce and to hell with it. It rocks like Royal Blood rock. Even if they came here to eat though, this place couldn’t rock any more than it already does. It rocks because it is one of the hottest tickets in town without acting like one of the hottest tickets in town. It rocks because cucumber, mint and strawberry costs fourteen whole pounds but when you put a forkful in your mouth, you get it. It rocks because the bread and butter is memorable. It rocks because it’s run by Tom Parry. He also runs the Smoking Goat. That rocks too. And Brat. Apparently that rocks as well. He courts no publicity, just lets his restaurants do the talking for him. If this restaurant could actually speak it would speak like Keith Richards after a night out with Ozzy Osbourne where they decided to plough on through without want of sleep or sustenance. It rocks that much. Yes, Mountain rocks for these reasons and more. Go. For the price of half an Oasis Reunion ticket you can rock out. Not to Cigarettes and Alcohol but to...