Gordon Ramsay Hell’s Kitchen London – Review

Two minutes’ walk from Marble Arch, just off Oxford Street, it wasn’t so long ago that The Cumberland was a bit of a fusty, fuddy-duddy place to stay. After its relaunch in May 2023, the reception has transformed from frigid arrival/departure necessity to vibrant lounging opportunity. Contemporary art interacts with hip furniture, a VIP lounge skulks in the far corner, and a London taxi worded with playful street slang preens in the hotel’s front as if mistaking the venue for a Selfridges’ display window. To the left is a swish circular bar covered with an ever-changing coloured mushroom gill roofing so that in this open-plan playground guests can, and do, drink wherever they want. Although not as dressed up or party-driven, the vibe reminds of the heyday of hotels like the Met, St Martins and The Sanderson. 

Slip down the left side of the bar and you’ll find a receptionist guarding a cavernous area which glows mainly a fiery red and, on the wall behind her, a stylised likeness of Gordon Ramsay which also glows a fiery red. Yes, this is London’s only Hell’s Kitchen and follows in the footsteps of other chain venues in Ibiza, Miami and Vegas, to name a few. With its four-to-the-floor pumping house music, its two open kitchens, its four separate dining spaces, its nightclub lighting and even some constantly burning fake flames, it certainly exudes a Vegas aesthetic. Curiously, although the left kitchen exudes the Hellfire colour scheme, the right one contradicts with an icy blue as if trying to temper the fieriness. 

My friend’s abstaining from alcohol, so has a Lychee Cooler, which is aromatic and comes with a dash of grapefruit juice, some elderflower and a sprig of mint. My Maple & Cocoa Old Fashioned is sweeter than some but still packs an alcoholic punch and is cooled by a large square ice cube practically the size of the glass. What initially looks like a black olive is actually a sweet, dried cherry. 

To begin with, choose from raw/chilled, starters, and soup/salads. Steak tartare comes already mixed with a subtle BBQ sauce, crispy capers, and a cured egg yolk. The meat is chunky and tender, but after a couple of mouthfuls, my friend wants Tabasco. It comes in a cute, baby bottle and its extra kick is a good call. More unusually, the tartare comes with three halves of fried Brioche bread, which is a nice touch and works as an edible serving spoon. The Shrimp Cocktail is served much like the same dish in Ramsay’s Bread Street Kitchen, Vegas style; on ice, with ketchup and lemon. But the prawns are smaller with a softer texture, almost as if they’ve been cured.

The Seared Scallops are dainty and exactly as they should be. Grilled on the outside, soft and tender within, lardons accompany with pickled fennel which echoes the sweetness but adds crunch to the smoothness. We think we’re done but our lively and genial waiter, Boran, insists we try one of his favourites, Harrissa Flat Bread. It’s a good call and comes in the size of a 7” single. It’s light but with a gooey, garlicy harissa paste and a sprinkling of grated cheese.

The mains arrive pure and simple and on large, flat white plates. As well as saffron, the Lobster Risotto rice has a distinctive and moreish bisque taste. Rather than mixing the lobster within the risotto, a butter-poached tail is sliced into six pieces and sits on top. We share the dish, and it doesn’t last long. The Lamb Chop comes as three hearty cutlets stacked against each other for what looks like a meat feast. Medium rare, the fat is crisp and the meat dripping with succulence. It reminds of when my mum cooked them for me as boy so I throw etiquette and cutlery to the wind and eat by hand. Red jus adds to the happy messiness and underneath the kale and dollops of curried butternut purée lurk. 

Hell’s Kitchen, the TV series where Gordon Ramsay did his best not to cuss whilst doing his best to reverse the fortunes of the worst kitchens in the world, is one of TV’s certified success stories and probably what turned the man into the brand. With an epic 24 seasons, my favourite scene features a young English chef with more bravado than talent. He and Ramsay buy some beef from a local butchers and Ramsay asks the chef how he’d cook it. “I’d grill it.” The chef replies confidently as Ramsay rolls his eyes and returns “The clue’s in the name.” The chef looks confused, then at the name, then a little disappointed with himself. “I’d braise it.” For anyone who might not have seen the TV series or known Hell’s Kitchen was a Ramsay restaurant, the place is adorned left, right and centre with large, contemporary art style photos of the man. In portrait and landscape, he’s folding his arms, he’s clenching his fists, he’s leaning on counters, he’s staring at us, the diners, daring us, practically to complain, to compare his Hell’s Kitchen with that of other restaurateurs’.  

Thankfully, we have nothing to complain about, least of all our waiter, Boran, whose name means a storm or thunder and lightning in Turkish. He’s a pleasure to have around and is knowledgeable, enthusiastic and cheery enough to make a good meal great or a great meal excellent. We forget to ask for his recommendations until dessert but follow his words to a T. The Sticky Toffee Pudding is a classic, of course, and here comes in square format. The toffee is poured at the table and then a quenelle of vanilla ice cream placed on the sponge’s top. As the ice cream melts, the sponge absorbs it and the toffee for a gooey and exemplary version. 

Coconut Three Ways is a different proposition altogether and is served like an inverse mushroom with a stalk made out of tempura. It’s actually designed as a coconut shell with chocolate emulating the harder exterior and a rich, flavoursome Bounty textured ice cream in the inside. My friend’s never seen anything like it and, frankly, nor have I. Some coconut cake cum crumble enlivens the plate and a mango gelee adds an exotic vibrancy. I consume it with a Salted Caramel Espresso Martini and leave this Hell’s Kitchen with the belief it will not be improved upon.