Despite having just opened on April the 1st 2026, Auguste feels like a restaurant that has been there forever, a chic yet unpretentious local spot where it seems like one can just pop by for some dinner, have a date night or just grab a lovely £5 campari aperitif.
It is one of those places in which one day, if lucky, you may be greeted as a regular, an infallible hub where great seasonal food and adventurous lowly intervened wine are guaranteed with each visit, whether impromptu or planned.
Chef Mike Bagnall and GM Dylan Walters have combined the best of Europe's “laissez- faire” culture; slow vermouth cocktails shared amongst friends in Barcelona, crisp white tablecloths as in a neighbourhood bistro in Paris, a menu inspired by the pastoral tradition of Arrosticini from the Abruzzo region of Italy, yet elevated with contemporary flavours and presentation, and completed with a mascot, “Auguste”, the clown, drawn directly from Edward Hopper’s “Soir Bleu” painting, of which a fabulous reproduction hangs on the walls of the restaurant.
that is enforced by Auguste’s extended team Laurie Bertram and chic Scout O’Donoghue, whom along with Walters, roam the restaurant in their own clothes, tending to guests as if welcoming friends for an intimate evening at their own house, providing the final nail to this welcoming and delicious experience.
The menu revolves around Arrosticini, which are finely diced meat skewers, grilled on an open charcoal elongated brazier, known as “furnacella”. An Abruzzean meal designed to be practical and efficient, and at Auguste’s they are paired with house sauces that complement and marry the flavour of the meat harmoniously. A standout dish is the Wild boar-stuffed morels with summer truffle and “cacio e pepe”, a plate that could be and in fact was rightfully described by O’Donoghue as a “renaissance painting”, the dish is meaty, rich and strong, yet carefully balanced as to not be overpowering, leaving the palette with a desire for the next bite. The Green asparagus with fresh peas and garlic were tangy and fresh and the Shetland cod with Vatese brodetto was salty and deliciously punchy to the mouth. Finally, as in an inside joke, the extraordinary Mascarpone, rum and coffee caramel tart, often creates a sweet mess and heavily stains the tablecloth, but proves to the team that the confection was consumed in delight.
You enter Cafe Kowloon and the space is something out of a movie. An open kitchen on flames, neon lights reflecting on your glossy pupils as you take in the beauty of your surroundings. What a vibe. What a place to dine and philosophise.
But first, the name.
was a fortified settlement in Hong Kong that became one of the most densely populated places on earth. It governed itself, fed itself, sustained itself. Torn down in 1987, it lives on in popular culture, in video games, in cinema. Not as a symbol of chaos, but of resilience. It feels right that a restaurant carrying its name should have that same energy.
We were served elevated cocktails, fresh margaritas and negronis, that gave a unique ting and flavourful layers to the modern Cantonese cuisine we were about to be served. For starters a dehydrated rehydrated jellyfish met the eye, cut into ribbon like noodles with a white sesame garnish. A first for me, and divine. To connect it to perediza's climate section, there is apparently a surplus of jellyfish due to climate change so eating it is actually good for the environment. For mains, the short ribs had an inviting spice. I don't handle spice well usually but love a good kick for an exciting, flavourful experience, and this was just that but even better. The ribs were tender, soft, but the spices never replaced the actual ingredients in hierarchy, they worked together and nothing got lost. One of my other favourites were the duck eggs, so flavourful, fun and sweet, spicy but really tasty!
The music was fast paced chill video game vibes and the food was like street food elevated. Cyberpunk realness. And that is perhaps the most honest homage to Kowloon, a place that was never supposed to work, and yet did, loudly, defiantly, with colour and life spilling out of every crack. The audience seemed intellectual, dressed in a minimalist but elevated fashion, young but well read, there was even someone reading while waiting for a table. The type of crowd that understands a place like this.
The mirrors reflected the red round tables and meaningful conversations at each, with one tealight carrying the weight of the evening forward. But that was enough. The presentation of the food was beautiful, the colours, the texture, the sauces, the vibrant energy that oozed out. Full of life, served in authentic Chinese plates bursting with colour. Just like the city it was named after.
Some restaurants you visit for the occasion; others become the occasion themselves. Dotori is the second kind — the fixed point of my neighbourhood, the place I drift toward whenever something small deserves marking. An article finally submitted? Dotori. The friends who live a few streets over, suddenly free? Dotori. A Thursday when cooking feels like one task too many and I'd rather meet my partner over good sushi and a cold bottle of Asahi? Dotori, of course.
It's the kind of place you'd walk straight past if you didn't already know — nothing about the glass shopfront announces itself, no fanfare, no design statement. Inside it's small and unpretentious: simple wooden tables set close together, a semi-open kitchen humming at the back, the whole room warm and a little buzzy once it fills up, which it always does.
The food is Korean and Japanese
and the whole appeal is that you walk in already knowing it's going to be good.
Which is funny, because the menu is huge. Page after page, every dish looking better than the last, and every time I tell myself I'll be adventurous. I never am. I'm a conservative eater and I've made peace with it. I orbit the same three dishes basically every visit: tempura ramen, kimchi bokkeumbap, the rainbow sushi set. Generous, comforting, a bit spicy just to keep things interesting. The waiters know me so well at this point that they know what I'll order before I sit down — and on the rare evening I go off-script, they tease me about it, like who is this person and what has she done with our regular. Honestly fair.
And maybe that's the small philosophy Dotori serves alongside the ramen: there's no shame in knowing exactly what you love and going back for it. Not every meal needs to be an adventure. Sometimes you just want to go somewhere you know — for certain — you'll eat well. (One thing: bring cash. You'll thank me.)
