It begins at Osteria Angelina as all the best things do – quietly.
No velvet rope. No loud signage. No grand announcements.
Just a gentle flicker of amber light behind tall glass; a hum of laughter carried on the breeze; the
clink of cutlery and the soft, inviting crackle of vinyl spinning somewhere near the bar. Tucked
just a few paces from Liverpool Street’s glass-and-steel hustle, Osteria Angelina doesn’t
demand your attention. It earns it. Dream team Amar Takhar and Joshua Owens-Baigler have
done it. Again. These two are beautiful humans and just get it. Everything at Osteria Angelina is
designed and delivered with intent and with one mantra in mind: To give you a great time.
A relaxed sibling to Dalston, haute-cuisine star Angelina, this new outpost has taken off its
designer heels, unbuttoned its top collar, and poured itself a drink. If Angelina is the brooding
artist: precise, mysterious, always thinking in chiaroscuro, then Osteria Angelina is the charming
younger sister: just as clever, but more likely to belly laugh, flirt with the sommelier, and serves
you something you didn’t know you needed until your eyes closed on the first bite.
This is a place that marries the soul of an osteria with the spirit of a Tokyo izakaya, where Italy
and Japan don’t just blend, they waltz.
And what a dance it is.
Cocktail your way through the bar menu at Osteria Angelina
Begin your journey, as all good stories do, at the bar. Because Osteria Angelina doesn’t just
serve cocktails. It tells them. A concise but varied menu, these three delighted me the most.
Big Cheese, perhaps the most infamously-named drink on the menu, arrives with the swagger
of an antihero in an arthouse film. Parmesan-washed vodka, clarified citrus, pear and acquavite,
sounds like it shouldn’t work, but it absolutely does. It’s savoury and silky, herbal and haunting.
Like drinking a martini while leaning against a marble countertop in Milan, as someone you love
tells you a secret.
Then, the Shinjuku Albatross – a name that evokes a neon-lit alley, red paper lanterns swaying
in Tokyo’s midnight breeze. The drink is mezcal-spiked and pineapple-laced, brooding and citric,
deep with umeshu and just the right amount of mystery. It sips like smoke in silk gloves, sultry,
bitter-edged, unforgettable.
Finally, the Ice Breaker, a watermelon and shiso vodka cocktail that lands like a haiku. Clean,
pink, and gloriously unbothered. A drink that tastes like spring-cleaning your soul. It doesn’t
shout. It smiles.
Each cocktail is both a prelude and a promise.
And then the food arrives.
A Table of Contrasts
There is a kind of magic here; somewhere between the olive oil and the umami, the miso and
the mozzarella, where contradictions are not smoothed out, but celebrated.
Take the Zucchini Trifolati, for instance. On paper, it’s almost monastic: courgettes, garlic, olive
oil, herbs. But in reality, it’s practically operatic. Warm, fragrant ribbons of zucchini melting
gently into one another, glossed with oil and flecked with thyme. It tastes like the garden after
rain. The kind of dish you eat slowly, reverently, as if it were telling you something.
Next the Angelina Caesar, a reinvention that knows exactly what it’s doing. Miso and anchovy
in the dressing; shaved parmesan drifting down like snow; shards of tempura crumbs that
crunch like autumn leaves underfoot. It’s a Caesar salad as reimagined by Kurosawa and Fellini
over a bottle of Barolo and a shared memory of Tokyo in spring.
And then the hush falls.
Because the Hamachi Sashimi with Truffle Soy is here. A dish that makes conversation fade,
forks still. Slices of raw yellowtail, each one pale and perfect, curl against a lacquered puddle of
truffle-soy like petals resting on water. It’s ethereal. It’s elemental. It’s almost indecent how good
it is. Land and sea meet in every bite. You taste fish that tastes of light, and truffle that tastes of
earth. You taste balance. And bliss.
Just when you think the kitchen can’t possibly raise the bar again, they bring you pasta.
The Pasta That Makes You Reconsider Everything
Agnolotti with Crab and Sausage…Let that sit for a second.
You might squint at the menu, wondering how fennel-spiked sausage and the delicate
sweetness of crab could ever coexist peacefully in a single pasta. But then it arrives – glossy,
golden pouches folded by hand, slick with butter and barely trembling under the weight of their
twin fillings. The first bite is confusing. The second is clarifying. The third is communion.
This is not fusion for novelty’s sake. This is a chef who understands that flavour is emotional.
That sweetness needs salt. That umami needs surprise. That Italy and Japan share more in
common than they don’t.
And then comes the main course like an exclamation mark.
Blythburgh Pork Chop. The cut is generous, proud, cooked to blush-pink perfection and
lacquered with a miso glaze that whispers of fire and smoke and things kissed on the edge of
caramelisation. The chop is juicy, tender, and just fatty enough to feel naughty. The side of Miso
Beans, buttery, nutty, umami-laced, is the kind of humble brilliance that could steal a Michelin
star’s thunder.
This is food that doesn’t just fill you – it gets you.
Dessert arrives like a lullaby. The Black Sesame Cake is quiet, dark, and devastatingly good.
Soft and spongy, almost dusky in flavour, it’s served with a dollop of whipped cream and a
sesame brittle that snaps like first snow. Every mouthful is a mood: sophisticated, grounded,
dreamlike. It is, quite frankly, how all meals should end.
But not before a glass of something perfect.
In Vino Veritas (And Sake, Too)
Osteria Angelina’s wine list is unapologetically Italian. No New World. No detours. Just a
celebration of La Dolce Vita: bold reds from Tuscany, coastal whites from Liguria, volcanic
Sicilian marvels. The list reads like a love story told in vineyards.
The star? Vigna Tonda, by Antonelli in Umbria. A Sagrantino of rare depth, aged to mellow its
youthful swagger into something refined and poetic. It smells of dried cherries and violets, tastes
like secrets kept beneath oak. It’s the kind of wine you drink slowly, ceremonially. The kind you
remember.
On top of that, just when you think the surprises are over, there is sake.
Yes, sake. Served in wine glasses, curated with reverence, each one chosen to complement the
food’s layered complexity. The Omachi Jewel Brocade sake is a highlight: delicate, floral,
haunting. Made from Japan’s oldest heirloom rice, it’s soft as silk and just sweet enough to carry
you into dessert. Or conversation. Or memory.
A Room That Hugs You Back
The space is warm, understated, and textured. Pale wood, brushed steel, terrazzo tables and earth-
tone banquettes. It feels Scandinavian in discipline, but Mediterranean in soul. The lighting is
soft, flattering. The playlist? Pure vinyl charm. You don’t want to leave. You want to stay, order
another sake, and ask the server where they got the lampshade. Talking of terrazzo, look out for their new outdoor terrace which is set to be a city hotspot.
Because Osteria Angelina doesn’t just feed you, it romances you. It whispers, rather than
shouts. It laughs in the spaces between flavours. It makes you feel like you’re in on the secret.
You leave simply feeling better. Not just because you ate well, but because you were seen.
Because here, someone thought about every detail. Someone cared.
And that is a rare thing.
So go. Cancel your usual reservation at your local. Postpone your trip to Soho. Get off the train
at Liverpool Street, walk just a few paces, and slip into the world of Osteria Angelina.
Where Tokyo dreams in Italian.
Where truffle meets sashimi.
Where the pasta tastes like poetry.
And where everything, somehow, feels just right.
To discover more, visit Osteria Angelina
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All Image Courtesy of Osteria Angelina.