Like the Italian porn-star-turned-politician it was named after 24 years ago, Cicciolina has grown from saucy to stalwart without sacrificing its bohemian side. The wood panelling is worn, the walls adorned with nudes, the loos off the car park. But there’s appealing chemistry driven by grown-up service and a chef who has been here since day one, delivering elegant mod-Med dishes to the crowded, sometimes noisy dining room. You can’t book for dinner, but wannabe diners can wait in the civilised back bar, as those who got in earlier savour favourites like lemony blue swimmer crab soufflé on Champagne and chive velouté. Wagyu carpaccio is paired with heirloom tomatoes and mozzarella; saffron angel hair pasta is tumbled with fennel and red mullet. Taramasalata and caviar give a salty kick to roast mirror dory. Regulars and savvy food tourists love the place, and you’ll likely feel the love, too, right through to the fig tarte Tatin with violet ice-cream.
