Date 5
Evenings at
The Ned
There’s something about The Ned that makes any evening feel like a bit of a moment. Maybe it’s the soft glow of the room, the crisp white napkins, or the quiet confidence of staff who know not to hover the kind of luxury that doesn’t need to announce itself.
Dennis arrived just after 7.20 predictably on time, of course and I was already seated with a glass of something chilled, tucked into one of those heavy banquettes near the windows. I’d gone classic: a warm coat, dark tights, and my favourite scarf knotted just so. Understated, but intentional.
We talked, we noticed, we paused to watch the light hit the windows just right. There’s a kind of conversation that can only happen when you’re fully present the kind that starts with nothing much, and ends with you both somehow feeling lighter. The kind that lingers in the air, like the last note of a song.
About Our Night
There’s something about The Ned that makes any evening feel like a bit of a moment. Maybe it’s the moody lighting or the jazz slipping through from the band in the corner, or maybe it’s just the buzz of it all—the quiet glamour without the fuss.
Dennis arrived just after 7.20 predictably on time, of course and I was already seated with a glass of something cold, watching the room. I’d gone classic: a black dress with sheer tights, low heels, and one of my favourite Hermès scarves tucked just so. It felt like the right kind of understated.
We ordered big because why not. I started with grilled langoustines, swimming in butter and citrus, while Dennis went straight in on the tomahawk, carved tableside with just the right bit of theatre. Everything was indulgent without being showy. The sort of food that makes you pause mid-sentence, eyes widened, before finishing what you were saying anyway.
What I wore
We’d both dressed for the occasion in our own way. I wore a structured Hermès camel-toned co-ord the kind of tailoring that speaks softly but lands with intent. The shirt was sharp yet easy, sleeves rolled just so, the skirt crisp and clean. I tied one of my vintage Hermès scarves around my neck, the colours catching the candlelight each time I turned my head. Dennis mirrored the tone his look was smart but relaxed: a soft blazer, perfectly cut trousers, and a shirt that felt just formal enough. Everything fit like it was made for him, because in a way, it was.
But as usual, the food wasn’t really the point. We talked properly. The kind of conversation that loops around things you didn’t even know were on your mind until they’re out there, between you, in the low-lit glow of a good table. Past plans, future maybes, a little nonsense thrown in for balance.
What he Wore
Dennis’s outfit was, as always, quietly considered. He wore a light cashmere blazer in soft oat, layered over a crisp shirt with a subtle stripe the kind of detail you only catch up close. His trousers were perfectly tailored, falling just above polished loafers that caught the light as he crossed his legs. Around his wrist, a slim watch peeked out with every gesture understated, elegant, and entirely him. He doesn’t dress to be noticed, but he always is.
We’d both dressed for the occasion in our own way. I wore a structured Hermès camel-toned co-ord the kind of tailoring that speaks softly but lands with intent. The shirt was sharp yet easy, sleeves rolled just so, the skirt crisp and clean. I tied one of my vintage Hermès scarves around my neck, the colours catching the candlelight each time I turned my head. Dennis mirrored the tone — his look was smart but relaxed: a soft blazer, perfectly cut trousers, and a shirt that felt just formal enough. Everything fit like it was made for him, because in a way, it was.
What we ate
Dennis’s outfit was, as always, quietly considered. He wore a light cashmere blazer in soft oat, layered over a crisp shirt with a subtle stripe — the kind of detail you only catch up close. His trousers were perfectly tailored, falling just above polished loafers that caught the light as he crossed his legs. Around his wrist, a slim watch peeked out with every gesture — understated, elegant, and entirely him. He doesn’t dress to be noticed, but he always is.
We’d both dressed for the occasion in our own way. I wore a structured Hermès camel-toned co-ord — the kind of tailoring that speaks softly but lands with intent. The shirt was sharp yet easy, sleeves rolled just so, the skirt crisp and clean. I tied one of my vintage Hermès scarves around my neck, the colours catching the candlelight each time I turned my head. Dennis mirrored the tone — his look was smart but relaxed: a soft blazer, perfectly cut trousers, and a shirt that felt just formal enough. Everything fit like it was made for him, because in a way, it was.
What we did
After dessert, we stayed put. Drinks turned to slow sips. Music played in the background — familiar enough to be comforting, soft enough not to interrupt. We talked about films we hadn’t seen, holidays we wanted to plan, and how somehow January was already flying by. I remember thinking: this doesn’t need to be a birthday or an anniversary or a big deal. It just needed to be exactly what it was — time together, uninterrupted, in a place that feels like it holds your memories without trying too hard.
The Location
There’s a reason we keep returning to The Ned. It’s not just the history — though the bones of the place do carry a kind of weight — it’s the way everything feels intentionally elegant but totally unpretentious. The lighting is soft, never showy. The staff glide, they don’t hover. The rooms are grand without being loud. You always get the sense that something lovely is happening at the next table, but your own evening still feels completely your own. It’s not just where we went. It’s how it made us feel — like time slowed down, like everything else could wait.
The Ned London
Address: 27 Poultry, London EC2R 8AJ
Phone: 020 3828 2000
“If they ever make a movie about us, I want this to be the scene they get right the lighting, the wine, and you stealing half my chips.”
