Top Table: The Ninth

Jun Tanaka’s reputation precedes him. With a CV that reads like a litany of London’s gastronomic greats – Le Gavroche, The Square, The Restaurant Marco Pierre White – The Ninth is, fittingly, his ninth venture, and arguably his most personal. There's a palpable sense of purpose to the place. You can taste it in every dish. You can feel it in every interaction with the staff, each of whom moves with the sort of effortless grace that only comes from deep pride and training.

The menu leans heavily into the Mediterranean, with French techniques humming in the background like a well-conducted symphony. It's the kind of place where sharing isn’t just encouraged, it’s assumed. And thank goodness for that, because narrowing down to just one dish would be an exercise in futility.

Our evening began with the house ricotta: a cloud of creamy indulgence nestled amongst sharp pickled baby artichokes and bitter leaves, crowned with delicate shavings of pecorino. Each bite played with contrast – earth and acid, cream and crunch – until we were scraping the plate for echoes of what had just been.

Then came the sedanini: a tangle of pasta tubes smothered in rich, soulful pork ragù, dotted with biquinho peppers that burst like tiny fireworks of sweetness and heat. Threads of lardo melted luxuriously into the sauce, leaving behind whispers of smokiness that lingered long after our final bite.

For the main, I chose the grilled baby chicken, which arrived with skin bronzed and blistered to perfection. It was complemented by roast peppers, courgette ribbons, soft Tropea onions, and cooling crumbles of feta, making for a dish that felt like it had been conjured from a sun-drenched garden in the south of France. It was hearty without being heavy, rustic without losing refinement.

My companion opted for the poached hake – an ode to spring. The fish was impossibly tender, flaking at the lightest touch, surrounded by buttery Jersey Royals and just-blanched asparagus spears, all enveloped in a herbaceous tartare sauce. It was clean, bright, and somehow impossibly comforting.

The restaurant itself is a masterclass in understatement: warm leathers, exposed brick, gentle lighting that flatters both food and faces. It’s a room that encourages conversation, that makes time feel like a flexible concept.

And beneath the surface, there's a story of remarkable resilience. After a fire forced its closure in 2022, The Ninth could have faded away quietly. Instead, Tanaka chose to hold onto his team, to invest in their growth, to refine. When the doors reopened in 2023, the restaurant hadn't just survived – it had evolved. The Michelin star remained, as did the soul of the place.

In a city glutted with dining options, The Ninth doesn’t clamour for your attention – it earns it, gently, insistently, and completely. I left that evening with a full belly and a full heart, already plotting my return.

Some places feed the body. The Ninth feeds the soul.

https://www.theninthlondon.com/