This article is taken from the June 2026 issue of The Critic. To get the full magazine why not subscribe? Find our subscription offers here.
Indefinable” or “impossible to classify” is the verdict on the style of cooking at Impala, currently reckoned to be one of the hottest, most mysterious tables in London.
Pinning down the kitchen is apparently as difficult as getting a reservation. The latest opening from the Super8 restaurant group — whose hip two-Michelin-starred stable includes the Smoking Goat, Brat, Kiln and Mountain — Impala has been seeding the hype for over a year, with early press releases claiming that though the intended name was embargoed, it would be inspired by a drug detailed in the Odyssey which magically cast grief from the mind.
Presumably this was nepenthe, reputed banisher of tears, and whilst that concept fell off the mood board, the Homeric element has been maintained in the list of provenances, which reads like the Catalogue of Ships in the Iliad.
Mr Damoul supplies generational family-crafted harissa from Tunisia, whilst citrus is out of Vincente Todoli of Valencia by Shrub London. There’s an awful lot more of that sort of thing, but onwards towards the inexplicable.
Impala’s chef is Meedu Saad, who cites Egyptian Ismailia, Turkey and Cyprus amongst his culinary influences. The key to the synthesis the restaurant invokes is the video of a flaming torch on a stone tower which billows smoke on the website.
Impala serves crusader food.
That is, it combines the ingredients of the former counties of Outremer in modern-day Cyprus, Israel, Libya and Syria with those of the routes across Greece and Turkey which the knights once travelled.
Lest this seem a whimsical hypothesis, archaeobotanical evidence backs me up: a survey by Tel Aviv university which analysed sediments from a 13th century rubbish pit at Arsuf on the coast of Israel revealed that the crusaders had adapted their diet to the local produce — wheat and barley, wild greens, figs, sea fish, mutton and game spiced with fennel seed and chilli, to which they added pork. There, it wasn’t that hard.
So, sort of medieval Ottolenghi, but is Impala any good? Smoked beef tartare with Mr Damoul’s harissa was uneventful, as was more harissa with puffy Egyptian-style aish baladi bread. Kibbeh, the ovoid balls of pounded wheat found throughout the Middle East, came with langoustine and yoghurt, wrapped in liquorice-heavy perilla leaves which dominated the delicacy of the seafood to the extent that it might not have been there.
Baby kadu radishes with wasabina mustard greens and anchovies was similarly imbalanced, a numbing punch of flavour followed by not all that much. The technique seems to be to put all the impact at the front of the dish, which produces a big razzly first bite and then a series of ever-diminishing returns, a rhythm which continued throughout dinner.
Raw turbot with garum and wild honey was another crusader clue, as fermented fish sauce arrived in Britain with the Romans and returned via Byzantium with the holy marauders who made it back; one of the few sites of garum production in the Eastern Mediterranean was at Ashkelon, site of the last action of the First Crusade and not far from the rubbish pit.
It was much less interesting to eat than to look up, and the rather limp, gelatinous fish seemed to agree that it deserved better than appearing with only a daub of sweet ‘n’ sour goo to protect its modesty.
Sheftalia, Cypriot sausage bound in caul fat looked like a dismembered haggis and tasted a bit worse, whilst duck in fig molasses was morosely greasy, despite boasting a stuffing of tangy black lime powder, a Persian influence picked up in the barberry pilaf which we weren’t interested enough in ordering to accompany it.
Sweetbreads with salted onion and pickled chillies performed the same diminuendo as the other plates we tried. Just one dish, the grilled squid salad with olives, cumin and harissa was lively enough to rise above mediocre.
Impala is hot in both senses of the word, the open grill and inevitable wood oven being very much to the fore. If there’d been any nepenthe going we would have been glad of it, if only to staunch the tears produced by the fumes, from which the sommelier — sorry, “pourer” — emerged enwreathed like the Pythian Sibyl to offer us a choice between Great to Drink under £65! (I’ll be the judge of that, thank you), Trailblazers and Appellation Rulebreakers, because nothing says rock ‘n’ roll rebel like ordering wine in Soho.
The most reasonable bottle on the list is an average Bourgogne Aligoté at the very unreasonable price of forty-five quid.
Nobody was very sorry when the host said they needed the table back. Meedu Saad has a sparkling reputation as a chef, but Impala is currently doing it a disservice. The cooking and presentation are polished, but the overall impression is of a scratch supper pulled together from all the bits lurking in the fridge.
I do hope that Mr Damoul is building himself a charming seaside villa on the back of all that harissa, since beacon of innovation Impala is not. Between the flaming tower, the infernal grill and the dazzled admirers, there’s plenty of smoke but very little fire.
Impala, Dean St, London. impalasoho.com
