If I attempted to draw a picture of the epitome of London cool, I’d scribble up Lagana. And scribble is exactly what I do as I wait for my perpetually tardy sister, sipping one of their seven colour-named cocktails. Since she’s fashionably late, I reach for the wax crayons laid out for me, take a swig of delicately lethal ‘yellow’ – with grape, citrus and bergamot – and doodle on the tablecloth. Vandalism? No. It’s encouraged.
This place is cool. Really cool. So cool, in fact, it takes five minutes alone to locate the door (the reason my sister gives for her late arrival). An edgier version of Charli XCX shows me to my seat. Naturalistic service and pops of primary colour decorate the dark cement room. Peppy house shimmers through the speakers. Interiors by Lunara Bramley-Fenton immediately reflect my desire to blend in here: a brushed-steel mosaic counter, glowing chandeliers, retro silverware and flickering naked flames. Lagana is the sultry space cowboy of restaurants.
There are toddlers’ drawings on every menu; you look cute printed in lowercase. (I’ll forgive the lack of capitalisation – I’m a sucker for a compliment.) The team bring childlike rebellion to counteract big-city brutalism. I’m not sure if it’s the disco bass, the clientele or the too-quickly-drunk cocktail, but I feel as if I’ve been submerged underwater and come back up for air at Kate Moss’s favourite haunt in 1999 New York.
At the same time, this place couldn’t be more 2025. I want to hate it. I want to despise its nostalgia-horny irreverence. I don’t. I adore it. I pull out my phone and Shazam the track that welcomed my entrance – trust me, it’s a place sprinkling even the most diffident with main character syndrome. I tentatively draw a smiley face on the table, letting my inner Banksy rip. I glance up from my artistic flow and the waitress spots the app struggling. I’m rumbled. “If it doesn’t show, it’s probably a remix,” she smiles. Of course. This is a place overflowing with people who exclusively listen to unknown SoundCloud DJs, only smoke Vogues and fly to Paris for Fashion Week. Me? I’m just happy to be here – Lagana is booked out for weeks.
Sibling restaurants Bottarga, Zephyr and Nina have secured perma-buzz with date-night-worthy décor and casually chic food. This is no different. It’s the only restaurant where we’re encouraged to jot poetry by our plates, though. My own sibling joins eventually. She fits right in, arriving in a Yankees cap (I did say she was often fashionably late). Immediately she puts pen to table. We write love notes until I review the menu and it becomes imperative we order a Herculean spread to cover our handiwork.
Dishes curated by Tzoulio Loulai go heavy on the lightest of flatbreads. The restaurant is named after one, so it’s only right to devour them. Puffy, salty, well-decorated; mop a perfectly velvet peak of tarama with them. From the raw section, the beef tartare is a worthy order, but it’s the seabass ceviche – with herby lovage, vibrant citrus and a perfect tickling of onion – that steals the limelight. No surprises there: we’re in the old stomping ground of Peruvian, Pachamama. Next, we devour succulent lamb belly, washed down with a gorgeously malleable Sea Foam Pet Nat. Yes, you heard that. Forgive me – I said I wanted to blend in, didn’t I?
If you get as overexcited as I do, you’ll easily reach £150 for dinner for two. I’d be happy to pay that for their crème de la crème. Dessert. The Basque-style cheesecake, with its high-tog centre, has us smiling in childlike glee. Yet if you prefer something as cool as the people in your periphery (and you didn’t get enough nostalgia from colouring in), opt for a soft-serve from the machine. Is this place genius, or a coming-of-age Pizza Hut for hipsters? I don’t care – it’s brilliant.
Lagana is serving. Playfully. The food is good, but that’s not why you come; you’re here to feel sexy and free. It works. Why exactly? It’s all Greek to me – but manage to secure a table and you’ll see.
View on Instagram
19 Willow St, London EC2A 3HU; Lagana
