**GORDON RAMSAY HIGH LONDON: A BILLIONAIRE’S UNFILTERED VERDICT ON WHETHER THE KING STILL RULES THE SKY**
Let’s cut through the noise.
You’ve seen the hype. You’ve watched the reels. You’ve heard the influencers whispering like they just stumbled upon Atlantis. “Gordon Ramsay’s newest restaurant… the tallest in Europe… panoramic views of London… a culinary Everest…”
But here’s the truth they won’t tell you—because they’re too busy snapping duck confit selfies to taste reality:
**Opening a restaurant at 800 feet doesn’t make you elite. It makes you expensive.**
And in 2025, expensive isn’t enough.
Not when every third chef in Shoreditch is fermenting sea buckthorn in bespoke ceramic crocks while quoting Nietzsche between courses.
Not when your Michelin-starred peers are cooking in converted nuclear bunkers or serving tasting menus inside AI-curated dreamscapes.
So when I stepped into **Restaurant Gordon Ramsay High London**—perched like a golden eagle atop the newly crowned **22 Bishopsgate**, London’s tallest skyscraper—I didn’t come for the view.
I came for the verdict.
**Is Gordon Ramsay still relevant? Or is this just a billionaire’s nostalgia trip dressed in white tablecloths and dry-aged beef?**
—
### THE ARRIVAL: WHERE POWER MEETS ALTITUDE
Forget the red carpet. This is **black steel, smoked glass, and silence**.
You don’t *walk* into Gordon Ramsay High. You’re **elevated**—literally and metaphorically.
A private express elevator whisks you from street level to the 60th floor in 42 seconds. No lobby. No waiting. No peasants.
Just you, a leather-clad host with eyes that scan like biometric software, and the entire city of London shrinking beneath your Italian loafers.
This isn’t dining.
This is **dominance**.
And already, I’m impressed.
Because in a world drowning in “accessible luxury,” Gordon remembered one thing:
**Real power doesn’t ask for permission. It assumes the throne.**
—
### THE ROOM: MINIMALISM WITH MUSCLE
No chandeliers. No velvet drapes. No gilded nonsense.
Just floor-to-ceiling glass, brushed titanium accents, and tables spaced so far apart you could land a private jet between them.
The lighting? Cold. Precise. Surgical.
It’s like dining inside a **James Bond villain’s penthouse**—if the villain had impeccable taste and a sommelier who could recite the pH balance of your Bordeaux.
And the view?
Let’s be clear: **The view is a weapon.**
At sunset, the Thames turns to liquid gold. St. Paul’s becomes a toy. Canary Wharf? A circuit board.
But here’s the genius twist: **Gordon doesn’t let the view steal the show.**
The lighting dims just enough. The glass subtly tints. The focus? Always on the plate.
Because this isn’t an observation deck with food.
This is **a temple of control**—where every element serves one purpose: **to remind you who’s still in charge.**
—
### THE FOOD: DOES THE KING STILL COOK?
Now, the moment of truth.
I ordered the **full 8-course “High Tasting Menu”**—£250 pp before wine pairings, before service, before the psychological toll of realizing you just spent your Tesla payment on a single bite of caviar-dusted scallop.
But let’s break it down like a hostile takeover:
**1. Oyster “Cloud”**
Served on a bed of dry ice fog, floating in a porcelain shell. The oyster? Raw, briny, perfect. But the *cloud*? A mousse of seaweed and champagne foam so light it evaporated on the tongue.
**Verdict:** Theatrical. Flawless. Not a dish—a declaration.
**2. Foie Gras Torchon with Black Truffle & Brioche Soil**
Rich? Yes. Decadent? Obviously. But what shocked me? The **balance**. The fat didn’t overwhelm. The truffle didn’t scream. It whispered. And the “soil”? Crumbled brioche toasted in duck fat—crunchy, salty, genius.
**Verdict:** Old-school luxury, executed like a Swiss watch.
**3. Lobster Thermidor Reimagined**
Here’s where Gordon flexes. He takes a 19th-century classic and **launches it into orbit**. The lobster? Poached in saffron butter, then glazed with a shellfish reduction so intense it tastes like the ocean’s soul. Served with a single raviolo filled with Comté and lobster coral.
**Verdict:** Not just cooking. This is **culinary alchemy**.
**4. Beef Wellington “High Cut”**
Of course he had to include it. But this isn’t the version you’ve seen on Hell’s Kitchen. This is **filet mignon from a 45-day dry-aged Highland steer**, wrapped in duxelles so fine they’re practically a memory, encased in puff pastry laminated in-house.
Served with a single roasted heirloom carrot and a jus reduced for 36 hours.
**Verdict:** If this doesn’t silence the doubters, nothing will.
**5. Dessert: “London next level cheesecake”**
Basque cheesecake with Rove de Garrigues (goat’s cheese).
A palate cleanser of rhubarb with champagne, rose, and olive oil.
A toasted grain, whisky, malt, and miso ice cream sandwich.
**Verdict:** Poetry. And the only time I’ve ever seen a dessert make a grown man cry (it was me, and I’m not ashamed).
—
### THE SERVICE: SILENT, SWIFT, SAVAGE
No “How’s everything tasting, sir?”
No unnecessary chatter.
Just **precision**.
Water refilled before you notice it’s low.
Cutlery swapped between courses like a sniper reloading.
Wine poured at exactly 14°C—no excuses.
This isn’t hospitality.
It’s **military-grade execution**.
And that’s the Ramsay signature: **perfection through discipline**.
—
### THE FINAL VERDICT: IS GORDON STILL KING?
Let’s be brutally honest.
The London dining scene is **on fire**. Young chefs are rewriting the rules. Sustainability, fermentation, zero-waste, hyper-local—these aren’t trends. They’re mandates.
And in that chaos, many legends have faded.
But Gordon?
**He didn’t adapt. He ascended.**
Restaurant Gordon Ramsay High isn’t trying to be cool.
It’s not chasing TikTok virality or plant-based virtue points.
It’s a **statement**:
> “While the world plays with foam and foraged moss, I will serve **perfection**—from the sky, on gold-rimmed plates, to those who still understand what real luxury looks like.”
So yes.
**His name is still enough.**
Because in a world of noise, **only the masters know when to say nothing—and let the food scream.**
—
### WHO SHOULD GO?
Not you.
Not unless you’ve closed a deal that made your broker faint.
Not unless you measure success in private jets, not Instagram likes.
Not unless you understand that **true luxury isn’t seen—it’s felt in the silence between bites.**
This isn’t a restaurant.
It’s a **filter**.
And if you have to ask if you belong there…
**You don’t.**
—
**Final Rating: 10/10 – Not just the tallest restaurant in Europe. The highest standard.**
Now go build your empire.
Because dinner at 800 feet isn’t for dreamers.
It’s for **owners**.
— **Jet Set Billionaire** 🦅
*P.S. Reservations open 90 days out. They sell out in 17 minutes. If you’re reading this and haven’t booked yet… you’re already late.*
On select occasions, Restaurant Gordon Ramsay High can be exclusively yours for an unforgettable lunch or dinner.
Indulge in the pinnacle of glamorous entertaining with friends, family, or colleagues, all while enjoying a truly unique dining experience.
LOCATION
Twentytwo
60th floor, 22 Bishopsgate, London EC2N 4BQ
CONTACTS
020 7592 1618
Email chefstablergrhigh@gordonramsay.com
When I stepped into **Restaurant Gordon Ramsay High London**—perched like a golden eagle atop the newly crowned **22 Bishopsgate**, London’s tallest skyscraper—I didn’t come for the view. I came for the verdict.
**Opening a restaurant at 800 feet doesn’t make you elite. It makes you expensive.** And in 2025, expensive isn’t enough. Reservations open 90 days out.
They sell out in 17 minutes. If you’re reading this and haven’t booked yet… you’re already late.
**Is Gordon Ramsay still relevant? Or is this just a billionaire’s nostalgia trip dressed in white tablecloths and dry-aged beef?**
Forget the red carpet. This is **black steel, smoked glass, and silence**. You don’t *walk* into Gordon Ramsay High. You’re **elevated**—literally and metaphorically.
The London dining scene is **on fire**. Young chefs are rewriting the rules. Sustainability, fermentation, zero-waste, hyper-local—these aren’t trends. They’re mandates. And in that chaos, many legends have faded. But Gordon? **He didn’t adapt. He ascended.**
