Taste – 8.4
Atmosphere – 8.8
Service – 8.8
Value – N/A
Address: 22 Charlotte St., London W1T 2NB, United Kingdom
Now and then, you should treat yourself to something a little bit special. That is why, here and there, I might throw a fancier, more expensive restaurant in the mix to spice this blog page up a bit.
When someone says “French restaurant,” I don’t get excited. I picture stiff service, high prices and food trying too hard. The Ninth, though, felt different: Mediterranean flavours, small plates and a proper sharing vibe.
Any place that tells you to pass things around wins me over. You get to taste everything, argue over the last bite and not sulk because someone else’s dish looks better.
Tucked away on Charlotte Street, the façade is delightfully shy, easy to miss unless you’re the sort who walks London with nerves on high alert. Catch it, and you’ll think, “Ooooh, that looks fancy.”
Inside feels warm and cosy like a restaurant in the mountains; just the right number of tables, a handful of bar seats for hopeful walk‑ins, and a romantic wash of gloomy green that somehow reads as intimate rather than moody. We claimed the back booth, which offers perfect acoustics, a full view of the room, and maximum privacy, making it ideal for conspiratorial bites and whispered compliments. The place leans upscale without shouting: sleek lines, no background music, and cutlery arranged with military precision on spotless marble.
The staff, sharply dressed and armed with attentive smiles, make you feel less like a customer and more like a guest in their home. They hover just enough, appearing at precisely the right moment to top up your wine or whisk away a plate, never rushed, never intrusive. Each dish is carefully introduced, complete with guidance on how best to eat it. That said, these explanations are delivered in such hushed tones that they resemble a game of Chinese whispers, leaving you nodding along while only half-sure of what you’re about to eat.
Snacks are always a promising way to start, and the opening lineup came swinging: crab and seaweed tartlet, sardine with marinated aubergine and cod roe on focaccia, and a crispy artichoke with leek aioli.
The tartlet was… fine. Not offensive, not memorable. It had a faint freezer-aisle energy, though the texture behaved itself and the crab tasted fresh enough to avoid embarrassment.
The sardine on focaccia, however, stole the show. It landed looking like it had defected from Scandinavia: a hulking sardine sprawled across pillowy bread, aubergine smeared generously underneath, pickles scattered on top. The flavours were a knockout; oily fish with a sharp acidity hit, softened by bread and grounded by deep, smoky aubergine. The kind of bite that makes your eyes roll back and your brain whisper, “You could make this at home”.
The artichoke kept the momentum going: shatteringly crisp leaves, a soft, silky heart, and a leek aioli so good it encouraged double-dipping.
Next came salted beef cheek and tongue with green meat radish and watercress mayonnaise, either your worst nightmare or your personal heaven. The meat melted away effortlessly, rich and indulgent, while the radish sliced through it all with a peppery snap that stopped things tipping into excess.
Then pasta, mercifully served for sharing. A concept Italy understands deeply, and the UK continues to fumble. The pumpkin risotto arrived crisped top and bottom, texturally spot-on but flavour-wise a wildcard. Confusing, and oddly compelling, like culinary liquorice. The conchiglie with truffle and Parmesan was a safer pleasure, landing neatly between comfort and indulgence. Scallop and red prawn cappelletti followed in a tomato sauce with heirloom tomatoes: fresh, briny, slightly chewy, and gone far too quickly.
Every plate left the table suspiciously clean.
Mains kept the drama alive. The seabass arrived filleted like a Viking offering: crispy skin, minimal bone anxiety, easy to share, and a head left on to remind you this was once a living thing. The Iberico pork pluma tasted like it had been cooked by someone who worships meat properly: so well executed it barely registered as pork. The jus was packed with flavour, though a touch thin, but it still played nicely.
Triple-cooked potatoes did exactly what triple-cooked potatoes should. The Hispanic cabbage divided the table; sharp and tart, a love-it-or-hate-it side.
Overall, this was a good time. Ideal for date nights or occasions that call for something a bit special without veering into stiff, touristy nonsense. Strong atmosphere and confident cooking. A restaurant that knows what it’s doing, and enjoys doing it.