The Travel Critic

Let’s be clear: The Lobster Bar at The Coppa Club is absolutely, heartbreakingly gorgeous. It’s like someone dropped a Soho House brochure into a Chelsea Flower Show and said, “Go mad.” The Thames sparkles below, the gardens are coiffed to within an inch of their chlorophyll, and the interior looks like a Nancy Meyers fever dream – all linen banquettes, rattan, and the soft glow of a thousand Instagram filters. You want to love it. You do.

And then they bring the food.

Oh God, the food.

Imagine if a village pub in Surrey tried to go upscale by watching a Gordon Ramsay rerun and ordering bulk brioche buns from Costco. That’s your Wagyu Burger. Bone-dry. Dead cow dusted in salt and dreams, served with a few fries that looked like they’d been rescued from the bottom of a teenager’s takeaway bag the night before. “Gourmet,” they call it. Honestly, the only thing wagyu about it was the price.

Service? Oh, it wants to be good. It means well. But it’s like being served by a pack of enthusiastic spaniels—lovely smiles, boundless energy, absolutely no idea where your Guinness, ice cream or coffee might be. (Spoiler: nowhere. They don’t exist. Like your hopes for a decent dessert.)

But then the sun hits the river just right. The rosé flows. And you think: “You know what? Maybe I don’t care.” Because if you want to sit somewhere stunning and be fed something that technically qualifies as food, this is the place for you. Just don’t come hungry, or hopeful.

4 stars for atmosphere. 1 star for the chips.