A wedge of glass and zinc quietly radiating confidence on its own little island just off Spitalfields Market, Crispin is part pavilion, part urban sanctuary, equal parts chic and grounded — the kind of place where design meets soul.
By day, the space floods with natural light, all blonde wood and soft hum; by night, it glows like a lantern. The vibe shifts from breezy to intimate as candles flicker and glasses of cloudy orange wine catch the light. It’s unmistakably modern European in spirit — seasonal small plates, natural wines, and a disarming sense of ease that feels, well, very East London.
When we stopped in for a Tuesday lunch, the room was buzzing — the kind of weekday crowd that suggests half the people work in “creative strategy” and the other half are pretending to. But there’s nothing pretentious about the welcome. Elliot, our server, greeted us with warmth that could melt drizzle. Between pouring negronis and talking us through the menu, he told us about his East End roots and how he’d recently visited his grandad in Dalston, borrowed his coat, and wore it to work that morning since the weather had taken a turn. The detail wasn’t performative — it was a small moment that said everything about Crispin’s ethos: rooted, human, and proud of its place.
Elliot steered us toward his favourite drink, the olive oil negroni — a golden twist on the classic, served over a crisp monogrammed block of ice stamped Crispin. It’s the kind of detail you don’t clock straight away, but when you do, it’s a nice touch — and the olive oil adds this silky, almost floral smoothness that ties the negroni all together.
From there, we surrendered all control and let Elliot — who seemed to know exactly what kind of lunch we were here for — choose the dishes. He didn’t miss. We also let him pick our wine: a chilled Sicilian Vigna Verde by the glass, bright and lightly fizzy, that turned out to be the perfect companion to every plate that followed.
First up: fried olives, crisp and warm from the fryer, with a confit garlic mayo so good it probably deserves its own PR agent. Then came Dusty Knuckle bread with a brown butter so nutty and lush it felt indecent. A little tip — do not let this leave your table until you’ve mopped up every last drop of sauce from the plates that follow.
We loved the cod cheek and chorizo skewers — tiny, smoky, green with salsa verde — and the beetroot with goat’s curd and pickled walnut, which managed to be both earthy and sharp, soft and bright. The burrata with Delica pumpkin, chilli and fried sage hit that balance between comfort and freshness.
The menu shifted up a gear with the larger dishes — the grilled chicken with Guindilla beurre blanc was tender, juicy, and unapologetically buttery. The hake with creamed leek and chicken sauce was rich and restorative, the kind of dish that makes you forget there’s such a thing as office emails.
We almost bailed on dessert until Elliot gently insisted we share the brown butter cake with plum and crème fraîche. It was off-the-scale yummy — dense, fragrant, just sweet enough, like autumn condensed into a bite.
We love Crispin — it’s the kind of spot you wander into once and end up calling your local. The food’s thoughtful without being fussy, the wine list feels like a friend’s recommendation, and everyone here seems genuinely happy to be part of it. Head chef Sasha Brent might only be 24, but the food is grounded, confident, and quietly brilliant.
Crispin
White’s Row, London E1 7NF
+44 (0)20 8050 0123
@crispin_london
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