Champagne should never require permission, and in Soho, it most certainly does not.
The epicurean haven of Bob Bob Ricard has spent the past decade and a half rewriting London’s sacred rule of indulgence with a blink and you’ll miss it wink, swirled with a gold-plated flourish. That notorious press for champagne button is not some gimmicky novelty, but a manifesto and mischievous invitation to misbehave beautifully where beneath the gleaming lacquered ceilings and a sweep of spruced up imperial blue leather, oligarch energy collides with fashion week gloss as ice cold vodka glints beside mother of pearl caviar tins, and succulent chicken kyiv bleeds with an outrageously molten abandon.
It is gloriously excessive, and deliciously self aware yet still capable of making even the most seasoned of epicurean connoisseurs, smirk with devilish delight.
Since 2008, this Soho grande dame has reigned as a temple to unapologetic pleasure where table-side rituals feel cinematic, and every plate lands with brazen confidence as their refined clientele understand the assignment of tailored suiting, and razor sharp heels swivelled in with infectious laughter that carries just far enough. It is indulgence performed at full volume, yet always immaculately choreographed.
And then just when London thought the spectacle could not sharpen further, September 2023 had only gone on to deliver Bébé Bob.
Nestled on the vibrant Golden Square where Soho’s electric restlessness brushes shoulders with Mayfair’s polished poise, this delectable sibling concept steps forward with a swanky, tightly edited proposition of an ardent tribute to rotisserie chicken, but elevated to a fever pitch of glamour. Not to be rustic nor quaint, but lacquered, bronzed and presented as though poultry were haute couture.
If Bob Bob Ricard is maximalist opera, Bébé Bob is the velvet roped after hours salon with energy is younger and a touch more conspiratorial, where candlelight flickers against glistening surfaces whilst impeccably bronzed birds revolve with hypnotic confidence, perfuming the room with butter and heat. It feels like Soho dressed for Mayfair, seductive and self assured, ready to prove that even the simplest pleasure can be rendered ridiculously, unapologetically luxe.
A Technicolour Temptation on Golden Square
A leisurely saunter from Oxford Circus and Piccadilly Circus delivers you straight into Soho’s delicious mischief, where Golden Square hums with after-hours promise and Bébé Bob glows like a lacquered jewel box against the night. Nestled with an aura of knowing confidence, its illuminated signage winks beneath deep red awnings as though it understands precisely who it is for and exactly what it intends to do. Even before the door swings open, there is that flicker of anticipation alongside the sense that something wickedly polished, awaits within.
Inside Daniel Monk‘s vision had erupted into a cinematic tribute to Art Deco seduction, dialled up and drenched in unashamed glamour. The entrance had been claimed by a dramatic twelve seat circular bar crowned in molten gold granite, its terrazzo flooring swirling beneath like a decadent dance floor waiting for heels to strike as smooth bottles shimmered beneath a soft light, while the debonair mixologists team flexed their craft with theatrical precision upon my arrival, shakers flashing and martinis lifted high in a display that felt equal parts performance, and provocation.
Citrus oils misted into the air, ice cracked sharply against crystal, and the first sip promised a night charged with intent, as brass detailing gleamed with brazen polish and the atmosphere carried that heady charge of somewhere you dress up for, not down.
Beyond, the restaurant had split itself into distinct moods without losing its pulse. The blue room cocooned diners in curved leather banquettes the shade of midnight couture, bespoke geometric carpets looping beneath marble topped tables like abstract art underfoot. Geometric glass screens caught reflections in fractured glints, heightening the intimacy while never dimming the spectacle to feel plush and conspiratorial, not to neglect the low glowing lighting grazing away at diners sharp cheekbones and glittering jewellery, turning every table into its own glossy tableau.
Then came the red room, brazenly sultry. Walls lacquered in a rich crimson embraced matching booth seating, each table crowned with glowing lamps that cast a burnished halo over glossy surfaces. An Art Deco artwork commanded the space with theatrical bravado, anchoring the room in old Hollywood fantasy while the energy pulsed distinctly modern. It had the aura of a jazz club where secrets are traded over Champagne and everyone looks better in the candlelight, the air giving rise to a warmer vibe and thicker with heady bold perfume, and laughter rolling low and indulgent.
Bébé Bob does not simply nod to glamour but strives to revel for the palette of imperial blue and brazen red to collide with polished stone and gleaming metal, creating a space that feels playful, and provocatively dressed for the night to show that while Soho may be restless, it is here where it has found its most flamboyant stage.
Golden Schnitzel and Shameless Indulgence
At Bébé Bob restraint checks its coat at the door.
Born out of love for posh chicken, caviar, cocktails and champagne, this Golden Square darling glitters with a promise that every evening will tiptoe deliciously off piste, with a knowing sparkle to the room married with the sense that indulgence here is not an accident, but a carefully choreographed pleasure. From indulgent menus to late night mischief in the beating heart of Soho, Bébé Bob relishes in excess debauchery with a dose of witty charm, and a perfectly arched brow.
The menu is a bold celebration of two great passions, chicken and caviar refusing to dilute its devotion. Golden schnitzel arrives as crisp as couture, its crumb shattering with theatrical finesse to reveal succulence within, while the perfectly roasted corn fed Cou Nu chicken is bronzed to a lacquered sheen, its skin taut and glistening, perfuming the air with butter and slow roasting juices. It is a true haven for chicken lovers who prefer their poultry elevated to near aristocratic status.
Caviar is not an afterthought but a headline act, presented from some of the largest tins in London with brazen generosity. Pearls of Siberian opulence gleam like inky jewels, saline silkiness giving way to a nutty, buttery depth that lingers with decadent intent. It is impossible not to feel slightly spoiled.
For those who believe more is more, the Black Truffle menu exists purely to deepen the decadence. Each dish is enhanced with the finest black truffles, shaved lavishly or folded into sauces with aromatic flourish, transforming already indulgent plates into hedonistic masterpieces. Earthy perfume rises before the fork even meets the mouth, and that heady truffle intensity clings to every bite with intoxicating persistence.
The cocktail list, created in collaboration with Mr Lyan, the world’s most decorated bartender is designed with clever precision to pair with the chicken and caviar bar snacks. These are not frivolous drinks, but meticulously constructed companions balancing brine and butter with acidity, and a flash of playful bravado.
My evening commenced with the Raspberry Ripple Royale, a glass of artful seduction blending Capreolus raspberry eau de vie with vanilla and Crémant méthode champenoise, the bubbles lifting the fruit into something almost ethereal. A flute of Moët and Chandon shimmered alongside, crisp and citrus bright, setting the tone for a meal where pleasure is not simply encouraged but gloriously, unashamedly demanded.
Starters arrived with a theatrical pizzazz, delivered by the dapper hosting brigade whose suavity was matched only by their wicked timing. The VSOP prawn cocktail was retro done outrageously right, with plump prawns glossed in a brandy laced Marie Rose that clung silkily to each curve, the citrus edge cutting clean through its creamy decadence.
A potato rösti crowned with trout roe crackled beneath the fork, the crisp exterior giving way to tender shreds within, each amber bead bursting with a saline pop that felt positively flirtatious. Then came the Slavic crêpe with caviar, feather light and delicately folded, a whisper of butter giving way to briny luxury that dissolved languidly across the palate.
Thirty grams of Siberian caviar followed, unapologetically gleaming, served with pillowy blinis and cool sour cream. The first spoonful was pure velvet, nutty, marine and faintly sweet, the kind of bite that hushes a table mid sentence.
“Any main course the customer wants as long as it is chicken or chicken,” declared Russian restaurateur Leonid Shutov with a glint that suggested he meant every syllable.
And so to the mains. The chicken schnitzel with caviar was brazenly indulgent, the golden crust audibly crisp before yielding to tender flesh beneath, finished with a flourish of glossy black pearls that elevated comfort to couture. The half roast French chicken was all burnished skin and succulent juices, carved with confident precision by a waiter who knew exactly how to let the aroma do the talking.
Alongside, French fries arrived impossibly hot and faintly salty, plunged into a rich sour cream dip crowned with yet more caviar, because moderation simply does not reside here. Truffle cauliflower cheese bubbled with creamy depth, while sautéed kale offered a fleeting moment of virtue. A chilled bottle of Rock Angel Rosé from Caves d’Esclans drifted throughout the meal encounter, pale and seductive with notes of wild strawberry and citrus that sliced neatly through the richness.
Dessert sealed the affair with a twinkle. The soft serve ice cream with caviar was the unapologetic queen of the night, cool vanilla silk meeting saline sparkle in a combination that should not work, yet absolutely does as the profiteroles followed in glossy procession, choux shells yielding to clouds of cream and a cascade of chocolate that demanded one last, greedy spoonful.
At Bébé Bob, indulgence is not a side note. It is the entire point, delivered with wit, polish and just enough delicious mischief to keep Soho talking long after midnight.
Bébé Bob and the Art of Indulgence
Bébé Bob does not pretend to be virtuous and that is precisely its charm. It is gloriously committed to pleasure in its most polished form, where chicken is elevated to couture status and caviar is treated less like an add on and more like a birthright. In a city that often chases the next culinary abstraction, this Golden Square provocateur has the confidence to say yes, it is velvet butter, silken pearls of roe and ever flowing flaxen champagne on a school night, but no we will not apologise.
At its pivotal core, Bébé Bob understands theatre illustrated with a menu that reads like a toothsome tale, together where the room feels charged with mischief and the entire experience leans into indulgence with brazen self belief. Rotisserie birds turn like centre stage showgirls, whilst caviar tins arrive with the gravitas of heirlooms and every pour of champagne carries the suggestion that tonight should escalate. It is luxury that refuses to whisper and instead chooses to purr, and brash enough to make excess feel not only permissible, but also severely essential.
