It takes me a minute to work out what’s so unique about Nina; a post-Fellini glamourpuss that can be found curled up and purring contentedly in a sparkly Marylebone basement. It’s not the menu, which is full of the kind of Italian-ish dishes London seems awash with these days (crudo, cacio e pepe, truffle fries and etc), nor the drinks list, which features cocktails named after cigarette brands (make ours a Silk Cut).
An extremely ample chicken Milanese is accessorised with a lump of intoxicating parmesan butter
It is, we suddenly realise, the fact that there don’t seem to be any men dining here. Like, at all. Sure, there are a couple of blokes taking orders and working behind the bar, but almost every table is taken over by women, either in mid-sized groups or conspiring couples like some kind of unholy union between Handmaid’s Tale and Sex and the City. It’s clear that what we’re witnessing is the natural evolution of Brat, in which the trope trots off to university, gets a 2:1 in social anthropology and still longs for a grubby sesh, but has to make do with bottarga linguine and a Golden Virginia spritz with kumquat.
Nina, which opened in spring 2025, quickly became a social media smash, due in part to its clubby energy and scrunchie girlie-friendly aesthetic. The music is loud, the walls are leopard print and all the surfaces are mirrored; think Big Mamma Group if their preferred movie reference was Scarface over Barbarella. Your average nonna would probably cross herself and mutter a bitter prayer before passing the glitzy threshold. An edgy Russian drug baron would feel right at home.
The vibe? Impeccable. The food? Well, their heart’s in the right place, with some solid ideas, including a starter I have personally mourned the loss of ever since Ciao Bella in Bloomsbury removed it from their menu a decade ago; a small dish containing hunks of salty parmesan and nothing more. Stark naked cheese - which in my mind is how parmesan is supposed to be eaten, vibrating with the salty, crystalline deposits which vanish into dust when it’s grated. There’s just one issue - the cheese is far too cold, meaning it’s tragically difficult to get a decent hit of flavour. The same goes for a beautiful melon wedge draped with tuna and drizzled with ponzu. The melon is simply too fridge-fresh, meaning it’s tough on the teeth and devoid of fruitiness. Tangy, jalapeño-yellowtail crudo fares far better from such Arctic temperatures, and is the best thing we eat all night; heady with a lip-puckering, toe-curling tang.
Simple spaghetti with tomato sauce is wildly overshadowed by an extremely ample chicken Milanese accessorised with little more than a lump of intoxicating parmesan butter. To say it is massive would be like calling peak Schwarzenegger ‘kind of a big lad’, a severe understatement. It is a beast, and perfectly done; crispy where it needed to be and succulent everywhere else.
Nina is undeniably fun – if you go for good times and silly drinks you'll have a blast.
The vibe: A clubby basement that, for some reason, 20-something women are obsessed with.
The food: Italian-inspired modern classics.
The drink: Lots of great wine and cig-inspired cocktails. Order a Marlboro spritz for a transgressive, pre-2007 taste of smoking indoors.
Time Out tip: Order the chicken Milanese, but for heaven’s sake split it between two.