Eat Out London!Miller & Carter Muswell Hill
Find a steakhouse near you: 30-day aged steak, seasoned & grilled to perfection. Book a table, menus & directions to the best steak in London, Greater London.
Miller & Carter in London - Steakhouse Restaurant
At Miller & Carter we know a thing or two about steak.
Because once you've tasted our hand-cut, 30-day aged British & Irish steaks you'll soon appreciate the care of our farmers, the exacting standards of our butchers and the passion of our chefs.
Reviews and related sites
Restaurant review - Miller & Carter, Chester | Restaurants in ...
food
To start, we shared Pulled Brisket Croquettes (£6.75) and Sticky Chipotle Chicken (£6.25).
The croquettes were nice - filled with tender bourbon-flavoured brisket, but I would have liked more than two, and the chicken bites could have done with a more heat.
Cooked medium-rare to perfection and seasoned beautifully, the steak cut like butter and was so tasty.
My partner selected the T-Bone 16oz (£25.95), which is one side a tender fillet, the other a flavoursome sirloin, served rare with half a rack of barbecue ribs (£7.50).
He said it was one of the best steaks he’d ever had.
RESTAURANT REVIEW: Miller & Carter, Muswell Hill | Times Series
food
It used to be a church, but thanks to some pretty magnificent interior design it’s now one of London’s best steak restaurants.
My eyes are always bigger than my stomach when it comes to steak but I can never resist the starters.
But no steak dinner would be complete without fries…and sides.
The garlic & parmesan tender stream broccoli (£3.50) and garlic button mushrooms (£2.75) were so good I couldn’t resist going back for more, even though I was full up.
We thought we were full, but by the time the desert menu came around, we simply couldn’t resist.
Gary Ralston's restaurant review: Miller & Carter, Glasgow - Gary ...
food location menu value drinks
Mind you, central marketing at Miller and Carter - no doubt London-based - should be grounded for the howler on its website as it directs diners to the restaurant ‘just off St George’s Square’.
The menu features glorious cuts of 30 day wet (vacuum packed) and dry (hung in open air) aged beef, from an eight ounce fillet to a spectacular 30 ounce Tomahawk suitable for two, the size of a dinosaur’s shinbone.
It yielded easily in tender, sweet, pink slices, the slightly nutty taste heightened even further by our two sauces of juicy, British beef dripping and a red wine Bordelaise, playing well to Izzy’s French heritage.
Jim rivals Phileas Fogg for his travelling experience, but as he tucked into his 10 ounce fillet, cooked on the bone, even he declared it “the best steak I’ve ever tasted.”
It might be no coincidence both steaks were dry aged, which draws more of the moisture from the beef as it ages and leaves a deeper, more intense flavour.
Brat, London E1, restaurant review: prog rock, or a very palpable hit?
food
It’s not often we’re really, startlingly, breathlessly up-to-the-minute, tumbling out of a taxi to review a brand new restaurant whose soft launch has barely hardened, needing to beg a PR for a table so we’re not sure whether we’ll be feted like visiting potentates or hosed down with dishwater, then hairdryered with verbal abuse.
But Brat is news, or what passes for news round here: a long-awaited and often-rumoured new project by fancied chef Tomos Parry, previously of Kitty Fisher’s in Mayfair.
This is, or looks like (I’ve never been) an unexpected rarity in central London: a genuinely posh restaurant – not luxurious, not grand, but squarely tailored to that precise social latitude where haute bourgeoisie meets déclassé aristocracy.
At first glance, Brat seems cut from a different cloth – though it’s on the first floor of a decommissioned strip club, upstairs from The Smoking Goat, which we wrote about here in February; but like their downstairs neighbour – and unlike, say, Bodega Negra in Soho – they’re studiously avoiding any allusion to the building’s seedy past.
Miller & Carter, Hants, restaurant review: a provincial steakhouse ...
A few weeks before Christmas, I ended one of these columns with a gentle dig – nothing nasty, a passing swish of side-eye rather than the full ox-felling force of my terrible critical snickersnee – at the provincial steakhouses of my childhood.
It felt like a small act of betrayal for the grown-up me to be pouring scorn on the 10-year-old me, who’d never felt so grown up, who’d never been entrusted with a steak knife before, who was full to bursting with pride at being out with his parents for the evening – and who probably first realised in such a place that what my mother was most enjoying about her evening was that she didn’t have to cook.
So I resolved to visit a provincial steakhouse to see what had changed in four decades, if anything.