October 22, 2025 |
Piccadilly can be a fickle beast. One minute you’re dodging hoards of tourists and neon theatre boards, the next you’re sliding into a dining room that feels like it’s been quietly waiting for you all along. Sael – the one-year-old British brasserie by Jason Atherton (also of the Michelin starred Row on 5) – is one of those rare finds: calm, confident and deeply, deliciously British in all the right ways.
I went on a grey Wednesday, the kind of (typical) London day that begs for something warm and indulgent. My guest and I settled into a curved banquette in a shade of mossy green so tactile it begged to be stroked. Later, I’d learn from Atherton that it’s made from mushroom leather – “discarded mushroom,” he told me proudly, “sourced sustainably from the UK.” The table gleamed under soft light, the chandeliers (by Martin Brudnizki, no less) glittering overhead like unrestrained jewellery. They’re originals from Sael’s predecessor, Aquavit, lovingly restored rather than replaced. “Why change something beautiful?” Atherton said. “Ego is a killer. It wasn’t about saving money – it’s about being smart and sustainable.”
That duality – grandeur and thoughtfulness – threads through everything at Sael. It’s a restaurant with old-school manners and modern ideals. Even the wood, I later found out, is reclaimed from storm-felled trees, reimagined into smooth tables by a company called Fallen and Felled. It’s the kind of detail you’d only notice if someone told you, but that’s exactly the point: sustainability without sermonising.
The service, meanwhile, is quietly faultless. Not the fussy, hovering kind, but the sort that makes you feel remembered. Our server offered wine suggestions that felt personal rather than pre-rehearsed, and when our plates arrived, they did so with the kind of understated choreography that lets the food do the talking.
And talk it did.
My meal began with Brixham crab – delicate, sweet, caught in the bright acidity of Amalfi lemon and a gloss of olive oil, served alongside a cold lobster herb bisque. The dish was topped with coastal herbs foraged off the north coast of Wales and anchored by a crisp serving of ‘yesterday’s sourdough starter,’ the kind of bread that reminds you why time is often the most important ingredient. My guest began with the carpaccio of 100-day aged beef, sliced thin and dressed with bone marrow and lemon – a salty, glossy ode to indulgence that made both of us pause for a moment.
Atherton told me later that he wanted Sael to be “one of the top five places in London where you can really eat affordable British cooking. Done properly.” He’s right about the affordability – the pre-theatre menu starts at £25 for three courses – but what really stays with you is the pride. “I want people to think, my goodness, I didn’t realise British food could taste so good,” he said, smiling.
The main course brought even more of that British comfort with a modern wink. I ordered the native lobster, prawn and scallop lasagna – baked in a glossy lobster bisque until molten and golden at the edges and topped with aged parmesan. It was the kind of dish that silences conversation; a spoonful of rich seafood, layered pasta and buttery sauce so good it felt almost indecent. My guest went classic: the beef and bone marrow pie, filled with beef shin braised overnight for about eight hours and snail ragout, the crust puffed high over its treasure of hearty filling with a garlic butter sheen. “That’s a pie with staying power,” Atherton told me when we spoke, which felt apt – Sael itself is built on the idea of longevity.
“Integrity is really important,” Atherton said. “Gone are the days when just having good food was enough. People want to know if your restaurant is sustainable, if you care about your staff, your suppliers, your guests. It’s about being a good pillar of the community.”
It’s easy to romanticise that idea in conversation, but Sael actually lives it. From the British Isles sourcing to the menus that shift with the seasons (the name Sael itself comes from the Old English for ‘season’), it’s a restaurant grounded in the here and now. Even the speakeasy-style bar upstairs, The Blind Pig, nods to Atherton’s past: a resurrection of Social Eating House – his beloved Soho haunt, so popular he had to put bouncers on the door, which shuttered in 2024 and housed the original The Blind Pig bar – serving nine-pound cocktails (yes, really) in a space that’s as lively as the dining room is serene.
As we ate, the rhythm of the brasserie built around us – the gentle hum of conversation, the clink of glasses, the low jazz curling under it all. The mashed potatoes arrived in a pool of chicken gravy, crowned – quite literally – with a piece of fried chicken. It was both genius and slightly mad, and we couldn’t stop eating it.
Dessert was a study in nostalgia and flair. My ‘banana split’ came as soft-serve swirls with caramelised banana, chocolate brownie and pecan brittle – playful but exacting (Sael changes its soft-serve offering every five weeks). It danced beautifully with a glass of 2023 Eradus ‘Sticky Mickey’ Late Harvest Sauvignon Blanc from New Zealand, all honey and apricot and just enough acidity to keep things bright. My guest’s hazelnut mille-feuille, layered with roasted pear and brown butter ice cream, paired with a 2019 Dagueneau ‘Jardins de Babylone’ from Jurançon, was stunning – elegant and almost too pretty to touch – and it tasted just as good.
If the food is the heart of Sael, the room is its soul. The space still holds Brudnizki’s DNA – those high ceilings, the marble, the soft lighting – but under the touch of Rosendale Design, it’s become warmer, more British, more intimate. Atherton described it best: “It’s only 85 covers [guests]. I wanted to keep the intimacy but make it feel like a brasserie.” That’s exactly what it is – grand enough for a celebration (10 Magazine celebrated its 25th anniversary there), relaxed enough for a pint and pie.
When I asked how he balances tradition with reinvention, Atherton leaned back thoughtfully. “You can hold on to tradition, but you don’t have to be stuck in the past,” he said. “All the good stuff happens when you celebrate what’s British but run with culture, with who we are now.”
He’s right – you can feel it in the way Sael embraces its London-ness. You could bring your nan for a long lunch, your friends for cocktails, or a date for something quietly romantic in the corner booth. “That’s what Sael is supposed to be,” Atherton told me. “You can come for one course, have a pint of Guinness, or do a three-hour meal. It’s supposed to be convivial, welcoming – the way a true brasserie should be.”
By the time we finished our last sips of 2018 Markvart Szekszárdi Bikavér – a bold, velvety Hungarian red that wrapped the meal like a warm coat – the room had filled with the kind of easy laughter that only good food and good service can summon. I looked around and thought of something Atherton had said early on: “We’re not there just as a profit centre. We’re there as a restaurant that really celebrates everything that’s great about our beautiful city.”
And that’s exactly what Sael feels like – a celebration. Of food, of craft, of Britain itself. A restaurant that proves that comfort and sophistication can share a table, and that modern British dining, when done with heart, has never tasted better.
Photography courtesy of Sael.
Jason Atherton
