Brindisa: A Toast to Spain on Broadwick Street

By Sebastian von Wenden

brindis (noun, masculine) /ˈbɾindis/ - a toast.

Brindisa, having taken its name from the word, aims to be a space in which food is shared between friends, glasses are raised, and tradition influences every bite. In Soho, and particularly on Broadwick Street, there is no shortage of places to eat.

However, with the city’s usual throng constantly passing by, finding somewhere one feels inclined to stay is rarer. And in that regard, Brindisa’s pledge is more than a convenient marketing label. With its hanging lights, exposed-brick interior, and open canteen-style kitchen, the contrast between the restaurant and the city is immediate and comforting.

The harder endeavour for Brindisa is not creating an atmosphere, which it has already done masterfully, but finding a balance between its rustic ingredients and culinary ambition without overwhelming each plate. What began in 1988 as a small artisan cheese-importing business has grown into one of the defining names of Spanish food in London, helping shape British familiarity with Spanish cuisine nationwide. But can that reputation survive the journey from ingredient to kitchen?

After exploring the menu and following the waiter's recommendations, I chose my first dish: Pan con Tomate topped with Jamón Ibérico de Bellota.

The pan de coca flatbread was crisp yet absorbent, softening beneath the tomato and jamón as they melted in my mouth. The penjar tomatoes were spread evenly across it: unmistakably fresh, acidic and tangy, cutting cleanly through the ham's umami-cured profile. Their vibrancy was particularly surprising given that penjar tomatoes are traditionally valued for their long shelf life, which I had expected would come at the expense of such brightness of taste. Freshness remained consistent throughout my whole meal, with several ingredients unlike anything I had tried before. Here, however, the tomatoes were so sharp that their acidity almost completely overwhelmed the jamón, leaving its characteristically nutty flavour to recede into the background. De bellota denotes jamón produced from Iberian pigs fed only on acorns and natural pasture during their final grazing period. With an ingredient of that quality on my plate, I would have preferred the jamón to lead the dish rather than just enrich it, but ultimately, this did not spoil the dish's delicious freshness and flavour.

My next dish to arrive - the Tabla Mixta showed Brindisa at its most confident: excellent curated choice of produce allowed to speak for itself. In front of me was a variety of cured meats and cheeses, arranged and presented ornately across a wooden board, with a member of staff happily taking me through each. The Manchego, rich and nutty, contrasted with the tangy yet creamy La Peral, demonstrating an assured understanding of balance. The lomo, chorizo, salchichón and finely sliced mature jamón were similarly distinct. The pepper in the Salchichón, prickling the mouth before being coated by the almost melting sausage, was a personal highlight, but each meat retained its own distinctive flavour without overriding the others.

Then came the Gambas al Ajillo, alongside the Croquetas de Jamón, both customer favourites. The gambas demanded patience when they reached the table, as the oil beneath them was still bubbling. The croquetas, too, arrived steaming hot. Once sufficiently cooled, the gambas did not disappoint. They were intricately seasoned with finely cut garlic, coarse crystals of salt, and spices suspended in a delectable, buttery oil. The prawns themselves were firm, almost muscular in texture, yet juicy and flavourful enough never to become rubbery or limp. Occasional crystals of sea salt burst, adding to the developing layers of texture. The Gambas al Ajillo gave an impressive first indication of Brindisa’s handling of seafood — something that would prove to be one of the kitchen’s strongest suits. After the gambas, I turned to the Croquetas de Jamón. Their golden, crisp exterior provided a pleasing contrast to the rich, decadent béchamel beneath, so molten, creamy and indulgent that the jamón was finely integrated into it, turning into something new altogether. I could certainly say that the croqueta melted in my mouth.

The final two dishes I chose to explore were from the seasonal and the classic sections of the menu: Coliflor a la Plancha and Pulpo a la Gallega. I chose the Coliflor partly because it was vegan, something I had not expected to find compelling on a menu otherwise dominated by seafood, cheeses and cured meats. The cauliflower sat atop a Verdina bean purée, carrying hints of olive oil and a myriad of spices. Above it was a balanced, salty and herbal chimichurri that complemented the richer, earthier cauliflower below. Crowning everything was a single crisp cauliflower leaf, intentionally lightly charred, faintly sweet and surprisingly delicious. I had not expected one of my favourite dishes to contain neither cured meat nor cheese, yet the quality of the ingredients, alongside the balance between simplicity and the contrast of flavours, allowed Brindisa to create a vegan dish that felt both refined and bold. 

The Pulpo, a tower of Koffmann potatoes, paprika, olive oil and hand-caught Galician octopus, was by far my favourite dish of the dinner. The tentacles were unlike any I had eaten before: firm on the outside, with a pleasant hint of chewiness, yet remarkably smooth, almost creamy and melting within. The interior texture was not dissimilar to that of the potatoes beneath it, while the paprika introduced smoke and warmth against the salty, maritime flavour of the octopus.

There were comparatively few ingredients on the plate, yet each worked through contrasts of flavour and texture rather than competition. Brindisa had turned the Pulpo not into an extravagant display of sourced produce, but into something far more coherent, a tapestry of culture that seemed to melt in the mouth. The Coliflor, meanwhile, offered further proof of the kitchen’s ability to turn simple, fresh produce into something elegant.

For pudding, I chose La Maritxu Basque Cheesecake, sourced by Brindisa from the renowned London Basque bakery, La Maritxu. It arrived at just the right temperature, looking exactly as you would expect it in San Sebastian: with an exceptional caramelised, dark, burnt crust and a fresh, consistent, soft, rich yet light centre, not overwhelmingly sweet - just the way I like it. To match my memories of visiting the land of the Basques, I have ordered a glass of equally refreshing, crisp Brindisa Ancestral, a sparkling wine by Sergi Colet, a 9th-generation winemaker producing it exclusively for Brindisa in the Penedès region of Spain. Even though this wine comes from Catalonia, it reminds me the taste of the Basque Txakoli and provides a perfect accompaniment and a celebratory touch to an already delicious dessert.

Brindisa sits at an aesthetic crossroads. Its commitment to high-quality sourcing gives the cooking a seriousness more often associated with restaurants offering haute cuisine, yet its classic dishes, rustic interior and warm music selection keep it grounded in something far less ceremonial. Brindisa therefore occupies a rare position: a restaurant with taste but also an unmistakable soul and personality. And if you asked me to name another place on Broadwick Street that achieves quite the same balance, I’m not sure I could.