The Ivy Asia Review - Guildford: A Phallic Liqueur and the Seduction of Pink Cherry Blossom

It was stage four of the Maserati GranTurismo Tour—a frivolous, fuel-scented pilgrimage through England’s more indulgent corners—when we found ourselves descending upon Guildford. Not the obvious locale for an evening of overt Asian excess, granted, but then again, neither is a V6 Ferrari-derived engine purring through the Surrey Hills in sport mode. And yet here we were: pistons cooled, collars unbuttoned, and a reservation secured at the impossibly opulent Ivy Asia.

The seduction begins long before the menu arrives. Before the lacquered chopsticks, before the golden dragons and theatrically upholstered banquettes. No, the Ivy Asia’s Guildford outpost does not so much open its doors to you as it swallows you whole—like an immaculately dressed, rose-scented anaconda with a fondness for lacquered wood and large-format cherry blossoms.

One moment, you are dawdling along Guildford’s cobbled high street, the usual parade of Joseph-clad brunchers and Lululemon lanyards giving no indication of what lies within. And then—swoosh—you enter the portal. A deep breath. And suddenly the world is paved in prehistoric fossils and neon enlightenment.

The floor alone is worth a dissertation. Underlit resin, shimmering with an almost aquatic phosphorescence, arranged to mimic slices of ancient sedimentary rock. It is the illusion of walking across a geode. And this is only the entrance.

An Aphrodisiac Without the Hangover

We begin, as all sensible evenings do, with a cocktail—but not, on this occasion, of the ruinous variety. I opted for what can only be described as a phallic orgy of lychee and rose oil, a virgin concoction that danced somewhere between Cleopatra’s personal perfume and a Venetian courtesan’s bathwater. Each sip was a flirtation—sweet, vaguely indecent, and fragrantly suggestive. One imagines Botticelli’s Venus might have had this in her clam shell.

Meanwhile, Ems—a vision in chartreuse and designer sarcasm—dove headfirst into a grassy green juice, which looked like something a Balinese yoga instructor might force upon a constipated supermodel. But here, it worked. The tang of chlorophyll against the velvet wall of spiced dishes proved an inspired pairing, not least for its ability to temper the creeping embers of chili.

Prelude to Seduction: The Starters

The duck spring rolls—a term which utterly fails to capture the sumptuous density of what arrived—were as tightly packed as a hedge fund manager’s Swiss vault. Crisp, golden shells yielding to generous swathes of shredded duck, countered deftly by shards of cucumber. This was not finger food. This was foreplay in filo.

I followed suit with the sweet and sour king prawns—and my word, they were divine. None of that cloying red sauce nonsense found in suburban takeaways. These were pristine specimens, lightly battered, the perfect crunch giving way to a luscious, almost indecently plump interior. The spice? A gentle flirtation. The herbs? A final, flirtatious wink. Absolute culinary choreography.

There was also a salad—of sorts. A vibrant composition of avocado, tomato, and a surprising flourish of pickled ginger. It was fresh, curious, and utterly original—less a nod to clean eating, more a playful interlude between indulgences. The Ivy Asia isn’t here to cleanse your soul. It’s here to charm it into ordering another cocktail.

The Main Event: Duck, Lobster, and a Culinary Crescendo

For the mains, I delved into what may be one of the most decadent forms of comfort food ever served outside a minor Asian royal court: lobster and duck special fried rice. A pairing so opulent, so needlessly magnificent, one suspects it was invented on a dare between two spoiled emperors. Large hunks of duck—moist, crisp-edged, unapologetic—mingled with fine shreds of lobster, the whole affair laced with a spice that crept up the back of the throat like an uninvited but rather charming party guest.

Ems, ever the elegant minimalist, opted for the teriyaki salmon—cooked to that elusive point between silk and smoke, lacquered in a soy glaze so exquisite it deserved its own bidding war at Sotheby’s. Her side of kimchi fried rice delivered a bold thwack of fermented mischief—just enough umami to make the salmon blush.

We sipped a grassy green juice in between mouthfuls—a verdant little remedy that gently tempered the fire of the chilli and spice. Did the job a treat.

At this point, the table fell momentarily silent. The rarest of moments: a meal so immaculately balanced that all you can do is pause, chew, and allow the brain to catch up with the tongue.

Dessert, Darling, Dessert

Desserts at The Ivy Asia are not optional. They are the triumphant encore of a thoroughly excessive opera. You don’t order them so much as surrender to them.

The Green Lantern arrived with the swagger of a East End villain’s pool boy. A sculptural slab of mango and passionfruit cheesecake, luminous and audacious. Tart, creamy, and texturally erotic.

And then, there was the Jiggly Bunny. Yes. A white chocolate panna cotta in the shape of a cartoon rabbit, wobbling atop a bed of blackberry cream sponge. At once whimsical and unnervingly sexy. The sort of dessert that might feature in a Japanese animation banned in several countries. You’ll want to look it up. But not at work.

The Men’s Lavatory as Art Installation

Before I say another word about the service (and it was exemplary), we must discuss the loos. One does not expect to be startled mid-stream by what appears to be a life-sized Japanese warrior in full battle armour, looming silently beside the urinal. For a brief, adrenaline-soaked moment, I assumed performance art. A live actor? A prank? Had I been transported into a samurai-themed escape room?

No. It was a model. Hyperrealistic, utterly unnecessary, and completely brilliant. Exactly what The Ivy Asia does best—offering excess not for the sake of vulgarity, but for the sheer, delightful theatre of it all.

The Décor: Opium Dream or Diorama?

Stepping into The Ivy Asia is rather like tumbling into the fevered dream of an eccentric, silk-robed collector who once tried to buy Kyoto on eBay. Every square inch of the space is curated, chiselled, lit and lacquered to within an inch of its aesthetic life. There are three-dimensional tableaus—yes, actual miniature stage scenes—of Japanese fishing villages, lovingly crammed into alcoves and bordered by shimmering panels of jade green. A koi pond wouldn’t have surprised me. A full bonsai forest? Entirely plausible.

The circular booths, upholstered in peacock-toned blue velvet, radiate like haute couture nests. They twine around square black-lacquered tables, offering perfect contrast in both texture and intent. You don’t sit at an Ivy Asia table; you occupy it, like an installation piece in a pop-up museum about excess.

Above, an avalanche of pink cherry blossoms hangs suspended, their petals dusted in subtle iridescence, casting a rosy glow across the Ming vase flanked tables below. One imagines a team of interior designers suspended from the ceiling by silk ropes for days, painstakingly arranging each branch to create the perfect artificial spring. The result? It works. Gloriously.

And then there are the sculptures—glowering samurai frozen in battle stance, tranquil Buddhas lit with discreet theatricality, and gold-studded Asian deities presiding over diners as if judging a particularly competitive tasting menu. The entire space buzzes with an almost filmic surrealism, instantly evoking the beautifully picturesque world of the video game The Ghost of Tsushima.

It is, in short, utterly magnificent. And completely mad. Which is exactly what one wants from a restaurant like this.

Service with Swagger

Now, lest you think this is all lacquer and lychee, I must offer kudos to the staff. Attentive, informed, and almost alarmingly efficient, without a trace of fluster or artifice. Not once did I sense the over-rehearsed stiffness that plagues certain aspirational chains. These were professionals—fluent in menu nuance, unafraid of opinion, and wonderfully intuitive in their timing. One suspects rigorous training, possibly under the watchful eye of a particularly unforgiving maître d’ with a background in ballet.

All in all, The Ivy Asia in Guildford stands unrivalled as the most exquisitely decorated restaurant bar none. Its striking design, vibrant atmosphere, and impeccable attention to detail make it undoubtedly the trendiest dining destination in town — the place to see and be seen for anyone seeking a flawless blend of style and substance.