The Ivy Oxford Brasserie — Restaurant in Oxford

A huge disappointment, food was okay, management is horrific, with minimal recompense.

My friend and I went Monday 24th August for lunch. As the eat out deal is on, the place was full, in my opinion, dangerously so. As others have said, the tables have no social distancing or screening, no staff on the floor wear masks, but tellingly when I was returning from the toilets I saw all staff in the kitchen, including waiters whisky they were in there, were wearing them. The worst kind of performative covid safety and this place in a nutshell. Trading on image and brand with barely a foam of actual substance. The staff whilst friendly were inattentive and ill managed. We were sat between a pillar and a till/waiter station yet had to wait over and over for various parts of out meal.

We ordered a beer, glass of wine and water for the table. Alcohol arrives normally, water does not. We can almost touch the fridge with the bottles in but the waiter did not bring one or glasses until the THIRD time of asking. Then it was maybe 20mins until we were asked to order food. The water once empty was not replaced, a service I have enjoyed at restaurants at half the price.

We chose the duck salad and salmon to start, both had the prawn and monkfish curry with "fragrant" rice and a side of sugar snap and garden peas. Ordered after the mains hade been cleared, the desserts were the crème brulé and flambé apple tart, finishing with a pot of earl grey and the delightfully named Shakerato (iced espresso).

To be fair, the food was good, minor points on the rice clearly being bog standard basmati with a couple of flakes of coconut on top and the calvedos flambé killing much of the apple flavour from the tart, which though it was apparently cooked to order, had a pastry base that was soft at the edges and brittle in the centre.

After our desserts were cleared, we waited for the drinks. The waiter had made a point to ask if we wanted the drinks after dessert, and we agreed.

We got lost in conversation before realising it had been more than a quarter hour with no drinks in sight. Bear in mind that staff were constantly passing, going to the till and not seeing us at a bare table. We had to stop another waiter saying we hadn't got our drinks, his response was "what do you want?", missing the point that we had already ordered, so we again said an earl grey and a shakerato.

When it finally came, the teacup had baked on dirt inside the cup, I had to scrape it off with my fingernail, at this level the staff should be checking the cleanliness of all tableware before bringing it out. It makes me question whether the other dishes with food covering them had similar contamination.

The tea was brought out on its own without the coffee. Again at this level, and with only two drinks, these should be brought out together. We waited for it, and waited, and waited. Once I had finished my tea, we asked for the bill at which point the waiter piped up with "oh you wanted a shakerato, sorry do you want it now?" which having finished the tea (a full hot pot, maybe another 10mins), we declined and asked for the bill.

We were now laughing to each other about how woefully inadequate the service was. Of course it took perhaps another 10mins to get a bill from the till we could see so closely, we could read the screen. Then it was presented to us with (thankfully) the not delivered shakerato refunded but also the tea (dirty cup).

A person who did not introduce themselves by name or position (in a suit, I'm guessing some kind of manager) supplicated before us apologising for the missing shakerato and telling us the tea was "on the house". Such a grand gesture of £3.95 on a bill of £86. We also had to ask twice for the removal of service (Reprint #3).

We then said we were very disappointed and went into detail as to why. His response was to contort his face into various childish "I'm sooweee" contortions and offer no reason for the failures.

Don't waste your time here. Quod, Gee's, Brasserie Blanc are all better run establishments of a...

There’s no denying the ambience here hits — vibrant, beautifully decorated, and definitely dressed to impress. You walk in feeling like you’re somewhere special. Sadly, that feeling peaked before the food arrived.

We started off hoping for the steak tartare, only to be told it was unavailable. On a fully booked weekend evening, that’s a basic misstep in prep. Instead, we were offered the salt and pepper squid, with the reassurance it’d be a large portion. Reality? Around 1.5 chewy pieces per person, with the batter falling off and a suspicious tissue buried underneath to bulk up the look. The squid wasn’t fresh, the batter didn’t hold, and the wasabi-chilli sauce had an identity crisis. Honestly? Wagamama’s version is nearly identical — and that’s not a compliment.

Then came the truffle arancini — or should I say, truffle-less arancini. Tiny, bland, and totally devoid of flavour. At £9, it should at least try to be special. It didn’t.

For mains, I went for the classic shepherd’s pie — apparently the longest-standing item on the menu. Presentation? Immaculate. The gravy? Rich and well done. But the dish itself? It took me straight back to school dinners — and not in a good way. I genuinely don’t say this lightly: walk three doors down to Sainsbury’s and grab a microwaveable one. That’s the level. I seasoned it myself and ate it out of sheer hunger. It was that bland.

On the flip side, the fish and chips was a rare win. The fish was fresh, flaky, and genuinely delicious — the kind of fish you’d expect at a solid gastropub. But again, the batter let it down — thick, greasy, and oozing oil when squeezed. I had to peel most of it off. The chips, though, were a solid hit.

Even the condiments disappointed. The mayo didn’t taste like mayo, and the ketchup was cheap, watery, and salty — more corner shop sachet than premium restaurant quality.

We shared our thoughts with a member of staff — who smiled, said, “sorry to hear that,” and walked off. No follow-up. No care.

At the end, when we questioned the “large portion” of squid, the waiter admitted it wasn’t large at all. We appreciated the honesty and got the price reduced — but it really just confirmed what we already knew: this meal was not worth the £172 we paid.

Honestly, I’d like a refund. Not out of spite — but because I’d rather stack that money and use it for my McDonald’s fund for the year. At least there, expectations and delivery align.

And to be totally transparent — this was, without exaggeration, the worst dining experience I’ve had since 2023.

One final note to The Ivy team — please don’t respond with a copy-paste message telling me where to email. I genuinely care about great dining and memorable...

The Ivy brand holds an interesting position in the British psyche. It’s the restaurant equivalent of saying someone’s lovely. Not brilliant, not exceptional, just… nice. It exists in the nice parts of nice towns, where nice people go for a nice meal. The décor is nice, the service is nice, and the food—well, it’s not going to frighten anyone’s palate.

The Ivy in Oxford is no different. Tucked neatly between the high street’s tweedy boutiques and its cashmere-clad undergraduates, it glows like a promise of Prosecco and polite conversation. Inside, there’s the usual Ivy formula: art deco light fittings that look like they were bought in bulk from a Gatsby-themed prop shop, velvet banquettes upholstered in that specific shade of green that screams “affluent aunt’s conservatory,” and staff trained to beam the same warm but faintly harried smile regardless of whether they’re serving a pornstar martini or a babyccino.

The clientele is a reassuringly predictable blend of Britain’s modern tribes. You’ve got your aspirational young couples: she’s in something low-cut and glittery, he’s in something tight and Hugo Bossy. Then there are the groups of glamorous women of indeterminate age, all of whom could be 32 or 52 depending on lighting and filler. And finally, the families, three generations of them, out to celebrate something that may or may not require a cake with a sparkler in it.

On this occasion I was part of the latter category, drafted in for my in-laws’ anniversary. And I can’t possibly pass up the chance for a Les Dawson-style mother-in-law joke: my mother-in-law said she’d like to be cremated, I told her, “Alright, get your coat.”

It wasn’t a grand plan, more of an exhausted stumble after an afternoon spent traipsing the cobbled streets of Oxford, where every corner promises “something quaint” and delivers another Pret.

By the time we reached The Ivy, we’d decided cream tea was the only sane course of action. Scones, jam, clotted cream, a pot of Earl Grey. The holy trinity of middle-class fortitude. And, to be fair, it was all… nice. The scones were warm enough to pass for fresh, the cream thick enough to risk a coronary, and the tea came in pots that clinked just so, as if reassuring you that this, yes, is civilisation.

Nothing to fault, nothing to write home about, and nothing to particularly remember, which one suspects is precisely the point. The Ivy doesn’t want to dazzle you or challenge you or change your life. It just wants to wrap you in a slightly perfumed blanket of competence and say, “There, there. You’ve made a...