Auguste

Okay, so I may have been converted to the East London culinary scene. A sentence I never thought I’d utter aloud, let alone type and share publicly. As a north-west girl born and bred, I’ve spent years feeling deeply smug about our leafy streets, great pubs and the ability to buy a coffee without queuing behind six people in Salomons and teeny tiny sunglasses. 

More and more friends have returned north, tail between their legs, admitting defeat after years of battling impossible rent and restaurants with more hype than flavour. But when people ask me where’s your local spot? I’ve realised I don’t have a solid answer anymore. Nothing that makes me grip the edge of the table and say, “You MUST go.”

But one evening I wandered down to London Fields, stepped out of the station and met Auguste. East London has never lacked good restaurants. There have been many an “it” place, many a death-row dish, many a reservation fought over. But these days the hype arrives as quickly as it disappears. Instagrammable obsessions come and go before you’ve even managed to get a booking, and genuine staying power feels increasingly rare.

But Auguste has something rarer than hype: genuine pull plus an authentically cool crowd

Not in an intimidating, everyone-looks-like-they-model-for-Miu-Miu way (I mean, there was one or two). But more in that deeply enviable, East London ecosystem way, where everyone somehow knows each other. Staff greeting friends of friends, passersby stopping for “just one drink” before inevitably being roped into bread, then cheese, then skewers, then suddenly the sea bream arrives at the table and nobody remembers who ordered it. Connections being made over excellent negronis. The kind of place where the soundtrack repeats, “Wait, HOW do you two know each other exactly?”

Set inside the former Papi site, Auguste is inspired by the pastoral cooking of Italy’s Abruzzo region, centred around arrosticini, traditional flame-grilled skewers cooked over charcoal and eaten casually with wine in hand. The restaurant comes from chef Michael Bagnall and co-owner Dylan Walters, formerly restaurant manager at Bambi who, after a stint in fashion, went on to found Twang!, a collective representing chefs for special dinners and events, Michael being the very first chef on their books. That blend of fashion-world cool and serious food knowledge makes complete sense once you’re inside. And at the centre of it all is Michael’s cooking, shaped by time spent living in Abruzzo, now brought to London Fields through skewers of lamb, wagyu and liver alongside larger plates and delicious, seasonal cooking.

We dined alfresco, clinging onto every possible second of London sunshine. White tablecloths, excellent people watching and enough wine flowing around the pavement to convince you summer had officially started, even if everyone still had a jacket draped over their chair. We started with some small plates, coppa stagionata and a homemade mozzarella that was so good I genuinely wished I could eat it whole like an apple. The puffed boar skin and tapenade was a particular stand out, one of those deeply savoury, glorious bites you immediately force onto everyone else at the table while aggressively insisting they “just trust you”. Of course, we ordered the Suffolk wagyu arrosticini, buttery and smokey as would be expected. But it was the mains that properly won me over. The cured sea bream with puttanesca salsa was bright, citrusy, fresh and just salty enough to make you immediately go back for another bite. And then there was the chicken saltimbocca with sofrito and chicken jus which, at £15, felt almost suspiciously reasonable for something so delicate. Comforting in the way Italian food does best, but still elegant and thoughtful.

But more than anything, Auguste nails the thing so many restaurants desperately try to manufacture: atmosphere. That elusive feeling of wanting to become part of the furniture. The fantasy of one day walking in and being handed your usual glass of wine without asking. Knowing exactly which dishes are non-negotiable, while still returning for whatever seasonal dish has appeared on the menu that week.

It’s not enough to make me a local anytime soon, but I’m already plotting my next reservation and journey out. Which, frankly, is the highest compliment a north-west girl can give East London.

Make your own mind up with a reservation booking HERE