New York Times 2010

Once you walk past the liveried doormen and set foot in Scott's, the venerable seafood restaurant where even clarified butter is raised to an art, the world ceases to exist.

At least, that's how it feels once you're inside: plush banquettes, attentive barmen in white coats, and the quiet hum of a crowd less concerned with the price of the oysters than when they were harvested.  There's the raw bar, the cracked ice piled high with the bounty of the North Sea and the Inner Hebrides.  In one corner there's a painting of a diamond by Damien Hirst, a regular.  (The Tracey Emin drawings are by the bathrooms.)

Read the full review.