Stop eating at The Ivy

A very blonde, very hungry 11-year-old boy named Ben has just stepped out of Hamleys on Regent Street. He’s wearing his cousin’s old Ralph Lauren shirt that’s too big for him, and a cap from Matalan. He hops into a black cab with his family to go for lunch before seeing The Lion King. 

He’s giddy with excitement because they’re on their way to a restaurant he’d heard so much about. A name synonymous with class, glamour, and style. Adored by A listers to royalty alike, to him this restaurant was as good as it gets, a British cultural mainstay whose stained-glass windows had withstood two world wars, Margaret Thatcher and 13 series of Big Brother. 

I am, of course, talking about The Ivy.

I remember to this day exactly what I ate. Scottish smoked salmon with robust soda bread, a dollop of crème fraîche and lemon. The iconic Ivy Shepherd’s Pie, presented in an unexpectedly refined, quaint rotund pile. And iced berries with warm white chocolate sauce.

This meal was more than good, it was formative, shaping my own understanding of what eating out meant. While I always try to broaden my foodie horizons it’s for this reason that, deep down, I’m always going to be that 11 year old boy eating smoked salmon and a Shepherd’s Pie.

It’s this particularly fond memory, and several great meals that followed, that leads me to present the following recommendation with a heavy heart and an empty stomach…

Stop eating at The Ivy.

Weakness in numbers

The Ivy is everywhere. 

What was once elusive, aspirational, and trendy, has now become to dining out what Pret is to sandwiches. I’m in no way fooled by the idea that making a restaurant difficult to get into automatically translates to incredible food, but there is no longer a market town in the UK that doesn’t have an Ivy. From Winchester to Tunbridge Wells, Marlow to Cobham, I sit here writing this with no doubt that ground has been broken on The Ivy, Weston-Super-Mare.

They’ll probably name it The Ivy on the Arcade, but it can’t disguise the fact that The Ivy has fallen foul of the Jamie’s Italian curse that has plagued so many of our favourite dining destinations.

The once charming Bill’s - which serves breakfast, lunch, dinner and literally every meal in between - multiplied at a rate of knots, cannibalising its own friendly neighbourhood USP by popping up on every high street north of Dover. 

Yo Sushi, once vibrant and fresh, ultimately undermined its uniqueness by reducing the quality and price of their fish until you may as well have picked up a £3 sushi meal deal from Tesco instead.

And lest we forget, there were only so many planks of wood Jamie could perch upon two tins of tomatoes before he realised that he’d basically created a marginally more upmarket Pizza Express.

Unfortunately for the corporate shells behind these restaurants, this cacophony of terrible decision making has coincided with a shift in the attitudes of the British public, who are not only more discerning in their taste, but more active in their belief that local, sustainable cuisine is wholly within their reach, and vastly more appealing.

It’s simple. Why choose one of the 39 Ivy’s across the UK, when you could have better food, better service and better value at the charming brasserie startup.

So, they can call them grills, they can call them brasseries, they can call them cafes, but we know exactly what they are. They are redundant capitalism at its worst.

Quality

Speaking of quality, I think it’s important to say that this once hallowed institution has gone seriously, seriously, downhill. 

My most recent visit – to the The Ivy Market Grill Covent Garden - was tacky, drab and stale. What was once a timeless and selective menu now reads like a serial killer’s final meal on death row.

“Ooh should I have the crispy duck salad followed by lobster linguine or steak tartare and Keralan monkfish curry. I just cannot decide!?'“

The prices are astronomical, and the food is bang average. Yes The Ivy has always ridden the wave of its reputation, but it used to serve up proper good grub with a healthy dash of refinement. Now its basically just a lavish Harvester.

The Ivy Asia

The final straw on this haystack of dreariness is the existence of one of the most horrifying, disgusting, and racist restaurant spinoffs in recent history. The Ivy Asia.

Where braincells go to die, The Ivy Asia is quite literally the physical manifestation of the remnants of British colonialism– because nothing quite says 21st Century Britain like the most Churchillian restaurant chain in living memory opening.

If the cringe-worthy redaction of an entire continent’s culture and garishly Love Island interiors weren’t enough to put you off though, then their recent promo video certainly will.

Not only is it shocking; perpetuating racist and damaging stereotypes that have long plagued a community who are so often victims of violence and hate, but I can’t help but return to the particular sordidness that this advert was put out by The Ivy.

Naming your private dining space ‘The Geisha Room’ is unacceptable at the best of times, but please tell me what right British multimillionaire owner Richard Carey has to create any sort of Asian restaurant that so blatantly co-opts and exploits Asian culture. 

This was the end for me. But where does it end for The Ivy? My concern is that there’s no stopping this train. Like Emile Sande in 2012, everywhere we turn THERE SHE SHALL BE. 

Stop eating at The Ivy

It’s hard to remember how that little boy was so excited to eat at The Ivy. In the 15-odd years since my first visit The Ivy has now become a money-hoarding juggernaut, void of any substance.

That’s why I’ve decided to stop eating at The Ivy. An insignificant gesture, I know. But if you join me, who knows, maybe this vulgar restaurant chain will be banished to the fiery depths of hell – which, I recently discovered is just watching Jamie Oliver assemble a Mediterranean tapas sharing board for eternity.