Offal, once relegated to the fringes of the British table, is enjoying a quiet renaissance
From neighbourhood restaurants to pop-ups, chefs are rediscovering the richness and versatility of ingredients like liver, heart and sweetbreads. This revival speaks to a growing commitment to sustainability and nose-to-tail cooking – a philosophy that values the entire animal and reduces food waste. Beyond the environmental benefits, offal brings depth, heritage, and character to modern British dining, reconnecting eaters with a more conscious way of cooking.
There’s also a certain cool factor to it. Offal still divides opinion – the texture, the flavour, the sheer idea of it – which only adds to its underground appeal. Chefs love it because it’s bold, technical, and a little rebellious; cooking with offal signals confidence and craft. For diners, ordering it feels like a quiet nod of belonging, a sign that you get it – that you’re not just eating out, you’re part of the inner circle. In a world where everyone’s chasing the next viral pasta or pastry, a plate of liver or tripe still says something rarer: that you’re eating like a chef, not a tourist.
Of course, St. John has long led the charge, embodying its “nose-to-tail” philosophy since 1994. Founded by Fergus Henderson and Trevor Gulliver, the Smithfield restaurant became renowned for transforming overlooked cuts – offal, bones and lesser parts – into refined dishes like roast bone marrow with parsley salad, lamb’s brains, and ox heart, reimagining traditional British thrift for the modern table. From there, its influence crept steadily across London’s menus.
Chef Lee Tiernan (an alumnus of St. John) took the idea further with Black Axe Mangal (now F.K.A.B.A.M.) serving brain mapo tofu and lamb-offal flatbreads long before it was fashionable. More recently, at Camille in Borough Market, head chef Elliot Hashtroudi has placed offal, from cow’s udder to heart, front and centre in a bid to normalise the once-marginal cuts.
Elliot’s duck neck sausage has become his signature dish, and a talking point on social media, thanks to its striking presentation, shaped like a duck. That’s precisely the intention: he wants diners to confront and reconnect with the reality of what they’re eating. By making the animal’s form visible, he reminds them of the life behind the ingredient, encouraging a deeper respect for the food, its origins and the act of eating itself.
Meanwhile, at Japanese yakitori bar Hotori, it’s a true beak-to-tail affair, with skewers of heart, liver, bone and even the parson’s nose (yes, that’s the chicken’s backside) sizzling over the coals. Smoking Goat’s “Offal Monday” has become a cult fixture, inviting hyped-up chefs to reimagine underused cuts – a perfect blend of kitchen ingenuity and sustainability. Over at Leydi, the new-wave Turkish restaurant, a recent kebab-night pop-up featured some of London’s best chefs slinging offal skewers in inventive, crowd-pleasing ways. And across the city, smaller ventures like pop-up Floffal, from butcher-chef Flossy Phillips, are pushing the message even further, “re-introducing and re-invigorating the bits in and around food,” harnessing offal to tell stories of whole-animal usage and zero-waste ambition.
Offal’s creeping onto the natural wine bar circuit too: Papi has served brains alongside their bottles; Cadet champions ox tongue; and Elsa in Fitzrovia turns out a luxurious pig’s trotter stuffed with potato, cep and bacon.
The message is clear: in London’s dining ecosystem, offal has gone from frugality to flex.
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