CeCe’s, London: ‘I loved every ridiculous, over-the-top moment of it’

England, an ancient and creaking country, is filled with sites of historical significance. In Leicester, they found Richard III’s remains underneath a car park. In Stratford-upon-Avon, you can visit the house where Shakespeare was born and where he lived when he got married to Jessie Buckley. To cap off a genuinely great night out in Soho a few years ago, an American friend took me to see the water pump famous for being the centre of the deadly 1854 cholera outbreak. And so, on a brisk midweek evening in early May, I made my own pilgrimage to west London, to a site that is, inexplicably, yet to get its blue plaque. Until recently, the restaurant now known as CeCe’s was an Argentinian called Casa Cruz, familiar to Tatler regulars and famous people, and known to tabloid readers as the restaurant where Rita Ora had her lockdown-busting 30th birthday party. History is everywhere, if only you know where to look. 

CeCe’s is the latest opening from posh-pub maestros the Public House Group, which oversee the Hart in Marylebone, the Pelican in Notting Hill and Cotswolds staple the Bull in Charlbury, among others. This is their second Italian, after pitching up with Canteen, also in west London. You could argue that London does not need any more new Italian places. Walk around any street corner and you’ll trip over a trattoria or an osteria, often fun and casual, many with a focus on a specific region.

Happily, CeCe’s belongs to the recent wave of big, shiny Italians. This is a campy, glamorous restaurant, all thick dark green shagpile carpets, velvet banquettes, mirrored walls and a bar that has the true essence of Don Draper in season five of Mad Men. The decor is left over from its Casa Cruz days, but it perfectly suits the shift to this kind of Italian experience. It is heavy on the martinis, light on the portion sizes – already semaglutide-friendly, for its high-end clientele.

I loved every ridiculous, over-the-top moment of it. British hospitality is in its infuriatingly casual era, where waiting staff tend to appear as often as a Kate Bush album, might pull up a chair to chat for a while, then go away and consider bringing the small plates at some point over the next three hours, with the disjointed rhythm of syncopated jazz. Not at CeCe’s. CeCe’s made us feel special and taken care of, without excessive fuss, but with sexy competence. Mind you, the CeCe’s martini – vodka smooth, infused with lemon, glass perfectly iced – was £21, which is the kind of price point where I do expect to be carried home on a royal palanquin. My date, who was less swept up in pretending to be Sofia Loren, had a bottle of the Vedett Pilsner, which arrived on ice, in its own cooler. Beer struggles to be fabulous at the best of times, but somehow, CeCe’s has cracked it.

The snacks were great, the starters even better. We had two crostini, crisp and light, one salty with artichoke and olives, the other grassy and spring-like with broad beans and sweet with crab. A jellyfish-esque burrata arrived, blobbed on top of an oily, peppery caponata, just the right balance of sweet and sour. It needed some bread to mop up the juices, but this is not a place where you would dare to ask for frivolous carbs. We had white asparagus on a delicate creamy sauce, with bottarga shaved finely on top, giving it umami and an almost smoky flavour. The fritto misto was immaculate: a bowl of lightly battered and fried asparagus, prawn, squid and sea bass, with a splodge of luscious mayo.

Though it was unseasonably dreary outside, everything tasted like good weather. Having overdone the smaller dishes, and liberated from tradition by that punchy martini, we opted to go full primo and eschew the secondo. Perhaps out of spite over the lack of bread, my partner spotted a double-carb on the menu and ordered the potato ravioli. It was the blandest dish of the night, the filling lacking texture and the walnut sauce almost instantly congealing on the plate. At this point she was drinking a 2016 Château Labégorce, an adult, retire-to-the-drawing-room, smoky sort of red, which didn’t go with the ravioli at all, but was nevertheless delicious. I had a refreshing glass of the slightly less elegant Pieropan Calvarino, poured from a comically massive bottle which resembled a Saluki’s nose. My rabbit ragù pappardelle was outstanding, the silky, gamey stew coating Wegovy-thin ribbons of pasta. I could have eaten it twice.

The puddings were polite rather than showstoppers, but lovely nonetheless. A little scoop of what was described as milk gelato (though isn’t most gelato milk? Here, that’s the flavour, sweet, pure) was drizzled with olive oil, and it was rich and soothing, while a citrus granita cut through the panna cotta, and slices of poached grapefruit on top added a flash of extra joy. Everyone around us seemed lively and content, which is, I suppose, what being rich can bring to your life. A couple of tables along, a teenager was having a birthday meal. I heard her ask her mother if this really was where Taylor Swift had held her birthday party. I thought about leaning over and telling her about Rita Ora, but I worried that it might dampen the cheerful mood. Still, I’m happy to report that if any celebrities are looking to have an event, strictly within legal parameters of course, then CeCe’s would be exactly the place to do it.

CeCe’s, 123a Clarendon Road, London W11 4JG (ceceslondon.com). Snacks and small plates £4.50-£20; mains £23-£58; desserts £5-19; cocktails from £18; wine from £45