Restaurant of the Month: Solaya.
The new, sky-skimming crown of Art’otel Shoreditch, is the sort of restaurant that makes you instinctively stand a little straighter, speak a little lower, and reconsider your entire wardrobe. Perched loftily on the 25th floor, Shoreditch’s highest dining room glows like a glamorous, softly lit spaceship hovering above the city.
The building, once a symbol of Shoreditch’s eternally self-regarding cool, now seems reborn as a temple of haute escapism: part gallery, part penthouse fantasy, part culinary observatory.
Up here, London looks less like a place you trudge through to buy oat milk and more like a glittering, cinematic backdrop to your own personal ascent. The room helps that narrative along: all soft curves, honeyed lighting, floor-to-ceiling glass, and a sleek, tactile modernism that whispers rather than shouts.
With Michelin-starred chef Kenny Atkinson pulling the culinary strings, the kitchen sends out a procession of plates that feel like they’ve been filtered through the house style of a luxury fashion campaign: polished, seductive, and just a tiny bit outrageous.
We began with the Solaya focaccia, a gloriously puffed, golden-tan pillow that tasted like someone baked a Tuscan sunset straight into a loaf. Dragging each warm, airy corner through olive oil and aged balsamic was a ritualistic act — like anointing bread with liquid jewels. The grilled peppers, meanwhile, arrived in a billowing, fragrant haze of smoked olive oil and paprika. Crispy capers crackled like salty fireworks, turning a humble plate of veg into something flirtatiously theatrical. The scallop crudo was the quiet assassin of the trio: silken, cool, impossibly delicate, bathed in a sauce vierge so bright and herb-flecked it practically winked at us.
Then came the mains, swaggering with big-night-out confidence. The bouillabaisse was a deep, saffron-tinted plunge into maritime decadence: red snapper reclining luxuriously among mussels and king prawns while a langoustine bisque wrapped everything in a velvety, oceanic embrace. The Rouille? A fiery, garlicky crown that made every spoonful feel illicit. The half chicken bourguignon was the comfort-food glow-up of dreams — pearl onions collapsing into sweetness, smoked pancetta weaving through like edible confetti, shimeji mushrooms adding moody woodland drama. It was rustic, yes, but dressed in couture.
Sides kept pace. Pomme frites with rosemary salt were crisp little golden wands of joy. The BBQ stem broccoli brought charred swagger, lifted by a punchy vinaigrette. And the heritage tomato salad — basil-scented, lemon-kissed, practically sun-soaked — reminded us that tomatoes, when respected, are basically fruit royalty.
Desserts sealed the affair. The crème brûlée shattered with an audible crack — the kind of perfect caramel shell that signals real kitchen sorcery. The apple tarte fine, meanwhile, was a buttery, paper-thin masterpiece paired with vanilla ice cream that melted with the languor of someone on holiday.
Drinks played their part: the La Paloma — mezcal, hibiscus, grapefruit, sumac salt — was a smoky, pink, citrusy flirtation in a glass. And the Telmont Reserve Brut? Bubbles with backbone.
Solaya is bold, beautiful, and built for celebration. Come for the view, stay for the theatre, return for the food — and leave feeling like the city below is applauding you.
Reservations: solayalondon.com