After a somewhat underwhelming experience at Locatelli’s National Gallery restaurant this year, I approached Angela Hartnett’s new Royal Opera House venture with trepidation. Famous chefs rolling out their personal brands in spaces not really designed for restaurants is risky – even more so in the current economic climate – but I’ve always admired Hartnett and Cicoria’s core concept really intrigued me when this opening was first announced. The Royal Opera House and the arcade beneath – architecturally reminiscent of great Italian cities like Turin – seem a natural fit for Hartnett. And then there’s the marriage of food and music: “come for La traviata, stay for the lasagne” (I’ll never be hired to do their marketing, though whilst we’re on the subject of dinner and a show, a more economical option is Osteria Tufo in Finsbury Park where one waiter sings arias as he shaves your truffles).
Also intriguing is the name: whilst “cicoria” is Italian for chicory (essentially lettuce with attitude), nothing struck me as bitter or earthy here; if anything, the top-floor room was too warm on this autumn visit (some ventilation from the balcony overlooking the piazza wouldn’t have gone amiss). At least the initial welcome was pleasing and a server was unfazed by a request for an off-menu martini (and competently-made it was too). There doesn’t seem to be any high culture haughtiness either: walk-ins are welcome and you don’t need a ticket for a performance to qualify for a table.
However, service wasn’t consistent on this visit. Being early days I’m prepared to overlook bizarre missteps like the secondi being served before the primi, or being charged twice for espressos, particularly as these were corrected with an apology. However, better communication amongst the front of house staff would pay dividends. Many of them were dressed in a uniform of monochrome overalls and trainers looking like a convention of dental hygienists, but not really working in concert, resulting in orders going awry. (Perhaps it was the martini prompting such thoughts but I wondered what the collective noun for dental hygienists would be. A flossing? A scraping? A condescension?)
Speaking of condescension, later on when I asked the suited maître d’hôtel why the tiramisù was apparently booze-free, he replied insouciantly, “that’s how we do it in Italy.” Well, colour me informed. Of course, the beautiful thing about Italian cuisine is the multiplicity of contradictory opinions, traditions and handed-down family recipes. Yes, perhaps the original tiramisù (itself a fairly modern creation) didn’t have alcohol in it, but the head waiter’s preachy tone wasn’t really necessary or helpful. In any case, I think I’ll stick to Russell Norman’s recipe with its brandy and marsala if it’s all the same to you (p. 238 of the Brutto cookbook, my signed copy of which is a treasured possession).
Indeed, the food on this visit was also a bit of a mixed bag, though technically fine under head chef Tom Ewer’s direction. The citrus-cured halibut with fennel and orange (£20) had a delightful freshness, the natural ingredients duly given the limelight, with some oil, olives and dill adding an interesting counterpoint to the cured fish, but it could have done with a little more pep or zing to lift it further.
Citrus-cured halibut with fennel and orange
Guinea fowl agnolotti
Ox cheek on celeriac mash
Guinea fowl agnolotti, with a gossamer-thin layer of lardo di Colonnata, was skilfully made, the agnolotti wallowing in an insanely reduced sauce which had all the intensity of Lindsey Buckingham. £26 may be a little steep for pasta but this felt worth it for a dish I didn’t want to end.
Somewhere between a hit and miss was the ox cheek on celeriac mash (£30): a comforting gastropub dish that could easily be served at The Eagle, here the meat was beautifully tender, the sauce rich, and the whole thing ‘decorated’ with a splodge of horseradish cream; the latter seemed to be gatecrashing the party but ended up being the life and soul. Visually, however, it stretched the bounds of rusticity into school dinner territory.
And back to that teetotal tiramisù (a second choice because the Amalfi lemon tart had sold out), it may not have been how I usually like it but I actually couldn’t fault its texture, nor the generosity of the portion.
So, there are a few things to like about Cicoria. But do only one or two moments of excellence justify a return visit when a meal in a stuffy room easily comes to £140 per head?
It’s admittedly a privileged conundrum but trying to give new restaurants a chance whilst also embracing the ‘use them or lose them’ maxim for your old favourites is a precarious balancing act. When you only have so much gastronomic bandwidth (and disposable funds), you naturally have to prioritise your choices. As I went for a postprandial passeggiata around Covent Garden and accidentally fell in to Rules for a nightcap, I concluded that Cicoria probably wouldn’t make that priority list, generally sound though it is.
Royal Opera House
Bow Street
London
WC2E 9DD
November 2025
