Review at a glance: ★★★★★
Is Chris D’Sylva London’s angriest restaurateur? He might want diners to think so. He’s learnt from the Ramsay playbook: rage is a bait people take. In March he made headlines by letting slip about a customer blacklist at his Notting Hill bistro Dorian, where he reviews and ranks his diners. “Everything gets marked,” he warned darkly. Rude to staff? Out on your ear. Cancel a booking? Yer barred. Influencer wanting a freebie? Go to hell. Dare even to ask about moving tables and D’Sylva will be stood over you out in the street.
Thing is, none of this has done a jot of harm to D’Sylva’s business; whatever he puts down, others pick up. His celebrity fans are by now well-publicised — Victoria Beckham is so devoted to Dorian that last winter she brought out a handbag named for it — but he’s got so many local regulars that he can’t seem to help opening places. Besides the Michelin-starred mothership is the Notting Hill Fish Shop and Supermarket of Dreams; a £250-a-head, invite-only night called Tuna Fight Club; and a sellout, supper-only Japanese bistro called Urchin. All of these in W11. An empire is forming. Genghis Khan got started with less.
Read more: Are you on a restaurant blacklist? You might just deserve it
Now there is Eel Sushi Bar, which sits on the opposite side of the road to Dorian. It is a boxy thing, covered in pale wood. “That’s clever,” I thought, “he’s opened in a B&Q shed.”
It’s one way to save some money. Except, he hasn’t. That wood is a pine sourced especially from Switzerland, atypical for a sushi bar but still a fortune. And then, where most operators would put in seats — you know, for customers, to make money — D’Sylva’s filled most of the room with a whopping great kitchen split between workspace and wine fridge. This is surrounded by a counter, so there’s only really room for about 12 at a go, though tables are turned hastily, as many as 10 times a day. There are no bookings, only walk-ins, and a queue forms almost as soon as doors open at noon.
Queuing for restaurants is not something I do (don’t you know who I think I am?). But I would for Eel. Hell, I’d sleep overnight on the pavement if I had to, like those maniacs at a Supreme drop with their camping chairs and Thermos flasks and total lack of self-respect.
It’s easy to leave a sushi restaurant — the kind run with constant interruptions and surly chefs — feeling much like you’ve just been to lunch in the headmaster’s office. Being shushed by a chef as they explain the infinitesimal difference in the fat content of raw fish is not my idea of a good time. But Eel has scrapped this feeling: it hums with music, bottles are constantly being opened, chefs chat but do not recite. This is tennis service, diners volleying questions, chefs slugging back the answers. Everyone is having fun.
There is the option to sit undisturbed. I saw at least three diners stunned into silence, the sushi having brought on speechlessness. It happened to us with the hoho-niku (tuna cheek), which arrived diamond-scored and dappled with the brown left behind by a blow torch, a ball of wasabi the size of half a caper and a pile of nutty caviar. Twiggy ate it and a look of ecstatic bliss crossed her face, one I’ve never seen before, which was a bit of an ego blow.
The miso soup could fuel an army, cure a hospital ward
This is fish better than I have ever had it in London. We ordered the entire menu for ease; as there came five-day dry-aged tuna belly with enough fat to flood the tongue. The otoro — tuna again — was as delicate as snowfall. Chutoro — bluefin tuna — seemed more muscular, its flavour stronger. Red mullet made lobster look meek. Cuttlefish was so finely ribboned the flesh looked like noodles. We ate getting giddier and giddier. Even miso soup, where we started, was above any other I’ve had. It could fuel an army, cure a hospital ward, ease grief.
I paid through the nose? No. True, the place is pricey, in keeping with its postcode. We left for under £150, but a budget of £200 for two might be more sensible. And there’s a lot of fine wine if you’ve packed the big-boy credit card.
There are some new manga figurines, which are lame as hell. But it doesn’t matter: this is London’s best sushi, and a restaurant to go toe-to-toe with any other. Happily, a hybrid booking system is being fiddled with. London’s angriest restaurateur? Here’s a secret — D’Sylva’s actually an absolute sweetheart. That’s why he wants his customers to be, too.
118 Talbot Road, W11 1JR. Meal for two about £200, @eelsushibar
