Punk Royale, hailing from Stockholm, has touched down in London with a bold declaration, or perhaps a warning, that their loud, immersive, 20-course fine-dining journey will obliterate any trivial British ideas of upscale cuisine. This is a significant assertion from these Swedish rebels. Indeed, almost five decades after punk was born in the UK, with the Sex Pistols throwing a fit on live television and triggering a nationwide uproar, here we see individuals sporting mullets and Roxette albums dolloping “bumps” of caviar onto my palm just moments after ushering me into a poorly adorned, musty dining area in Mayfair. The ambiance is reminiscent of a student flat and could certainly benefit from a thorough cleaning by Mr Sheen. That bump is likely intended as a cheeky nod to snorting cocaine at a shabby afterparty. Yet, the humor at Punk Royale is far from whimsical: mostly, it comes off as heavy-handed, akin to sledgehammer blows. For instance, they might turn off the lights, present some unsatisfactory remoulade, and instruct you to lick it off the plate while repeatedly blasting Khia’s My Neck, My Back until your spirit wanes. I’ve encountered more playful wit at a Roy Chubby Brown performance.
That caviar bump, by the way, was accompanied by a shot of tomato water that paired well with it. However, all the drinks that followed in the non-alcoholic wine selection were heavy, soupy, funky, and vegetable-like.
Punk Royale’s rejection of traditional crockery and cutlery might be its most radical concept. Across more than 20 dizzying courses, we encountered numerous items served on the lids of plastic takeout containers (including a cheesy puff with a sauce piped on) and in syringes. At one point, we were handed disposable surgical gloves and a tin of something fishy, told to consume it with our bare hands. Utensils made their appearance around course 17 to tackle some largely inedible guinea fowl accompanied by what Punk Royale referred to as “tasty paste.” I remain clueless about its contents.
We waited for the actual entertainment: the singing, the dancing, the revelry; eventually, someone approached with a hefty stainless-steel serving spoon, tapped me on the shoulder, and forced some unknown mash into my mouth. It turned out to be lobster, truffle, and kohlrabi. There was foie gras on a cheerful blini, paired with a syringe of raisin liquid, which resembled Shloer. None of the flavors were particularly pronounced. I was nearly coerced into eating, and it all arrived at a rapid pace – every two minutes, a new dish was dropped down. In the end, we were presented with a cube that might have been Hartley’s jelly.
The coffee semifreddo was a highlight for me – a brief escape – although it’s possible I was simply in disbelief and this served as my sweet comfort. This cuisine lacks finesse and isn’t worth the £500 for two with a non-alcoholic drink pairing. Naturally, some may argue it’s not solely about the food, but about the overall atmosphere. However, at £500, there should definitely be an emphasis on the food as well, not just coloring oysters green and serving bland tofu bites topped with soggy breadcrumbs on a box lid while imagining you’re Escoffier in Vivienne Westwood plaid trousers.
The commercialization of UK dining, where patrons end up significantly out of pocket only to learn it was never really about the culinary aspect, is exhausting. A challenge for these punks is that London is already overflowing with immersive dining experiences; if one wishes to suffer through bad chicken in W1 while being subjected to enthusiastic actors channeling Basil Fawlty, Poirot, or an Elizabethan wench, there are already ample options available.
As for immersive theater that genuinely astonishes, productions such as You Me Bum Bum Train, Punchdrunk, Secret Cinema, and a myriad of other artistic experiences have set a lofty, surreal, high-budget standard. Massive casts, hidden spaces, intertwining narratives, unexpected celebrity cameos; remarkably, these interactive encounters possess no bounds in how fiercely they strive to disconcert the audience.
In contrast, Punk Royale, seemingly targeting affluent, experience-thirsty young adults, mainly executes one aggravating act, which is seizing patrons’ phones and securing them in a box for safekeeping. Clearly, this is intended to preserve the allure of the experience, although a skeptic might suggest that the lack of depth in the dinner’s production would render it unrecognizable under the scrutiny of social media in less than two weeks. We escaped into Saturday night Soho, where genuine indulgence has flourished continuously since at least 1500.
It’s merely rock’n’roll, and I’m not a fan.
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Punk Royale 6 Sackville Street, London W1S, 07375 136388. Open for dinner Tuesday to Saturday; seating times Tuesday at 7pm; Wednesday to Saturday at 5.45-6pm and 8.45-9pm. £220 per person, including drinks, plus service.
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The upcoming episode of Grace’s Comfort Eating podcast is set for release on Tuesday, October 14 – listen to it here.
