Girls night started exactly how it should: with an extra dirty martini that could have revived a Victorian child. Gaia in Mayfair always sets that tone. The room glows. The people gleam. The energy is bright, bold and a little theatrical in that chic Mediterranean way. And then there was Bradley, our waiter, who deserves a medal, a parade and possibly a bank holiday named after him. He was charming, intuitive and somehow knew what each of us wanted before we did. I am convinced he has psychic abilities.
We sat down pretending we would be sensible. That lasted until the Sea Bream Carpaccio arrived. Paper thin slices dressed in lemon, mandarin and truffle that melted the moment they touched the tongue. It tasted like sunshine layered over silk. Next came the Spanakopita. Warm, flaky, comforting and filled with feta in a way that made the table sigh in unison. Then the Astakomakaronada (try pronouncing that) appeared, and the entire table fell silent. Lobster curled into glossy linguini with cherry tomato. Every forkful felt like a small moment of triumph.
Bradley insisted we finish with the Pagoto Giaourti, which was a very correct decision. Frozen Greek yogurt drizzled with honey, scattered with caramelised walnuts and tiny loukoumades that felt borderline romantic. At that point, any hope of us behaving for the rest of the night evaporated. Gaia has that effect. It feeds you like it wants to nourish your soul and then send you into mischief.
I haven’t eaten at their outposts in Marbella or Monte Carlo yet, but I know the mythology. Sun drenched, glamorous, the kind of places where the food arrives like it has its own PR team. London may not have the beach views, but it has a quiet confidence all its own. Polished. Grown. Self-assured.
After dinner, Bradley gave us a knowing look that should have been a warning. Instead, we took it as encouragement. We floated toward the back, slipped behind the secret door and walked straight into the underworld of Mayfair. NYX.
The contrast hits instantly. Gaia is golden hour. NYX is midnight with attitude. The room is soaked in deep reds and cosmic blues, the kind of palette that makes everyone look like they belong in a very expensive perfume campaign. The air feels heavier in the best possible way. The music is lower, deeper. Everything glows softly, like the walls themselves are flirting with you.
Inspired by Nyx, the Greek goddess of the night, the whole place has this delicious hint of danger woven through it. Textures shimmer, shadows slip across surfaces, and details reveal themselves slowly. It feels mythical without feeling themed. Clever, confident, seductive. A little wild.
The first room was buzzing, filled with the type of crowd that pretends not to care who is watching while absolutely caring who is watching. The DJ kept the pulse steady, the lights moved like liquid, and we eased into that glorious zone where time does not quite behave.
Then we wandered into the second room, a cocoon of dark corners, velvet, reflections and quiet temptation. It felt like the kind of place where decisions get made that never see daylight. The kind that make for very good group chats the next morning.
NYX has this magnetic quality. It does not try to impress you. It invites you in, lowers your guard and gives you just enough mystery to keep you guessing. No wonder it has siblings in Dubai, Doha, Marbella and Monaco, with Miami on the way. The London one has its own character though. A little sharper. A little sexier. A little more dangerous in all the right ways.
We stayed far, far longer than planned, because that is what NYX does. It lulls you into one more song, one more drink, one more story you will absolutely twist when you retell it. Leaving felt like surfacing from a dream you are not entirely ready to wake from.
Girls night completed. Gaia sweet. NYX savage. And honestly, we would not have it any other way.
