You know when you have your moment? Like, your Martine McCutcheon moment, well, I’ve had mine recently.
I received an email inviting me to an exclusive blogger brunch at the newly-opened The Ivy In The Lanes, Brighton.
*Fan me, wet my fore-brow with a cold flannel and let me breath into a brown paper bag for a hot minute would you, Susan*
Ever since I got wind of the news (not of the physical trapped kind, you understand) that Brighton was getting an Ivy, I have been stalking the developments like some kind of brasserie traffic warden. Logging the progress, licking the signage, reporting sightings of any activity going on inside the building. No, you’ve got issues.
Dear reader, I was excited.
Located in the grade II listed old post office building on Ship Street, it’s a welcome addition to the smorgasbord of restaurants we already have on offer, here in Brighton.
You know you’re getting old when you come out with, “it’s a fantastic use for such a beautiful empty building.”
I swear I skipped the part where I’m meant to be living it up Lindsay Lohan style and went straight to the banana sandwiches and a Bovril before bed, part. Whatchagonnado.
While The Ivy is a chain – a trigger word for any passionate foodie – everything about it feels unique and quintessentially, Brighton. From the colour clashing interiors to the coastal inspired art– it’s a decadent space flooded with light, print and culture.
Unlike modern eateries such as Red Roaster, The Ivy In The Lanes has truly embraced the art of maximalism and I’m digging it tbh.
It’s anything but stripped back. It’s a nod to the theatrical and a celebration of excess – a theme that carries through from the adorned ceiling to the onyx bar down to the service itself, which can only be described as Oscar-worthy.
One thing you will have to make your peace with is this: the wallpaper will be better dressed than you and you will need to schedule some extra time to dribble all over the toilets and to talk to other people in the toilets about how amazing the toilets are. Say toilets one more time.
If I had a bag big enough, I so would have tried to pilfer the 1950s style seat because hello blush pink, hello draw me like one of your French girls.
Initially, with several knives and forks laid out before me on the table, I felt a minor Jack Dawson panic attack coming on.
I had visions of my salmon being launched half way across the room and landing in someone’s champagne flute as I tried to navigate this cutlery sudoku. And then I’d be all, ‘one has not lived until one has seen the salmon fly as if it is a raven.’
So, I guess you’ve gathered I ordered salmon, then? I opted for a generous portion of eggs royale and I was very happy with the egg to muffin to fish ratio. Nice one, guys.
The fact that I couldn’t eat it all is testament to the portion size – and maybe something to do with the selection of mini pastries I shovelled into my cheeks like an overzealous hamster when we first arrived, too.
How many minis make a whole? Don’t answer that.
I can’t wait to go back and sample the afternoon tea and sink a few cocktails while slumped at the bar, pretending I haven’t got to keep transferring money back and forth from my savings to my current account 157 times a day.
Brighton got an Ivy, and it would seem it got a real rose to boot.
If you want to feel like a Hepburn, dine like Bond and drink like you’re Rose Dawson’s mother, then you need to book a table here. Just remember to eat from the outside in, eh darling.
Many thanks to Fugu PR and the lovely staff at The Ivy, Brighton for having me.
Love you bye.