The fanfare around Bouchon Racine has reached fever pitch.
This week, the 40-cover French bistro perched above The Three Compasses pub in Clerkenwell was officially crowned the UK’s best restaurant at the 2026 National Restaurant Awards, leapfrogging the mighty Ritz into second place. The accolade is the latest in a remarkable rise for chef Henry Harris and business partner Dave Strauss, whose old-school Lyonnais dining room has become one of the hottest tickets in Britain.
But anyone who follows respected food writers such as Angus Colwell will know this is hardly a surprise. Long before the awards judges caught up, Bouchon Racine had become a pilgrimage site for serious diners, regularly featuring near the very top of London’s must-visit restaurant lists.
Harris’s story only adds to the mystique. The veteran chef first won acclaim with Racine in Knightsbridge before its closure in 2015. Bouchon Racine, opened in late 2022, was something of a comeback project – a return to the unapologetically French cooking that made his name. What began as a modest venture above a pub has since become one of the most difficult reservations in the capital to secure.
So naturally, we had to find out whether Britain’s newest culinary king really deserves the crown.
We visited for lunch at midday on a Wednesday. Frankly, good luck getting a table at any other time over the coming months.
The first indication that this is no ordinary restaurant arrived moments after sitting down, when a large chalkboard bearing the day’s menu was carried to our table.
There were no QR codes. No tasting menus. No elaborate explanations involving foraged sea herbs harvested under a full moon.
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Instead: rabbit with smoked bacon, cured ham made from purebred Gascon Noir de Bigorre pigs, smoked cod’s roe, bavette steak and sweetbreads.
Food that sounded reassuringly French, reassuringly rich and reassuringly unconcerned with trends.
I plumped for the calf brains to start, served with black butter and capers.
From the first mouthful, I understood exactly what all the fuss was about.
Brain is to French bistros what paneer is to Indian restaurants: it separates the wheat from the chaff.
Done badly, it can be forgettable. Done properly, it’s sublime.
This was sublime.
The texture was impossibly delicate, the flavour rich without ever becoming overwhelming. Every forkful seemed to absorb more of the nutty, deeply savoury black butter sauce. The accompanying crusty bread became an essential tool rather than a side order, pressed into service mopping up every last drop of liquid gold left on the plate.
Not a molecule was wasted.
To wash it down came a glass of 2023 Fleurie Les Moriers from Domaine Chignard. Bright and elegant, it delivered juicy red berry fruit with floral notes and just enough freshness to cut through the richness of the food. It was the sort of wine that quietly elevates everything around it without demanding attention for itself.
The main course doubled down on everything that had made the starter so memorable.
Milk-fed lamb sweetbreads – the pancreas and thymus glands, often referred to as heart or throat sweetbreads – arrived alongside broad beans and another sauce so good it felt almost criminal that society prevents plate-licking.
Sweetbreads are all about texture, and these were extraordinary.
The exterior carried a delicate caramelised crust, giving way to an interior of almost custard-like softness. Each bite managed the rare feat of being both rich and feather-light at the same time. The broad beans brought freshness and contrast, but the real magic came from the way everything was united by yet more impeccable sauce work.
French cooking has always understood a simple truth that much of modern gastronomy seems determined to forget: flavour often lives in the sauce.
Then came a side dish that would have been the headline act anywhere else.
Creamed spinach with foie gras.
Silky, decadent and outrageously indulgent, it somehow transformed a humble vegetable into something worthy of centre stage. If there is a more luxurious way to eat spinach in Britain right now, we haven’t found it.
What makes Bouchon Racine special isn’t innovation. It isn’t theatre. It isn’t social-media-friendly plating.
It’s confidence.
Harris cooks with the certainty of someone who knows exactly what matters and exactly what doesn’t. There are no gimmicks here, no foams, no tweezers, no desperate attempts to reinvent dishes that were already perfect.
Just deeply traditional French food executed at an extraordinarily high level.
And that’s precisely why it has resonated so powerfully.
The hype, I’m happy to reveal, is entirely justified.
Bouchon Racine isn’t merely the UK’s best restaurant because an awards panel says so. It’s the UK’s best restaurant because it delivers something increasingly rare: food that prioritises pleasure above all else.
Cancel your Ritz reservation, people.
There’s a new sheriff in town.