You know that anxiety dream where you’re standing naked in front of the entire school/office/wedding party? The one that grips you with panic until you realise, with profound relief, you're actually in bed? Well right now, as I linger on the threshold of London's first naked restaurant, it is becoming terrifyingly true.
As I arrive at Bunyadi, an eatery where only the salad is dressed, questions race through my mind: what if I'm the only woman? What if I see someone I know? I haven’t been starkers in public since ‘a Brazilian’ referred only to a person from South America.
As I approach the blacked-out pub playing host to this latest hipster gimmick, two bouncers give me the once over before nodding me inside. It feels more like a Freemasons’ convention than a meal out. I’ve just been handed a gown and slippers and have thrown back a margarita for Dutch courage when I bump into a guy I used to work with. Crap! We vow to avoid each other at all costs, tighten our robes and scuttle off in opposite directions.
Next, I’m greeted by a topless woman with fig leaves woven around her sensible white briefs. She leads me through a room so atmospherically ill-lit with candles I'm fearful of brushing against a stray nipple as I grope my way to my seat. The tables and chairs are fashioned from logs and set in private booths made of bamboo, all in keeping with the restaurant’s ‘natural’ theme.
It’s a concept the owner, Sebastian Lyall, created so diners could enter a ‘Pangea-like’ (pre-historic) world, free from phones, electric lights and clothing. But the ambient jazz being piped through a speaker doesn't sound all that pre-historic to me.
‘It's a place diners can come if they want to feel liberated from the modern world,’ he tells me. ‘This is about feeling comfortable in your body. I’m rebelling against the popular culture of using sex to sell products.’ I suggest some might consider his topless waitresses at odds with that philosophy, but he’s clearly doing something right: the waiting list is already 46,000-strong and the interest has mainly come from women.
Once I'm seated, a waiter explains it’s entirely up to me whether I choose to get naked, triggering unwelcome flashbacks to some of my earliest dates. After some hesitation I let my robe drop to the floor. It's less Basic Instinct, more Bridget Jones. From the waist down my modesty is conveniently protected by the table but my boobs are out and are shocked to see it isn't the shower wall staring back at them.
It feels odd to be naked but then it’s so blisteringly hot that putting my robe back is more unthinkable. My next challenge is mastering the art of concealing my breasts with one hand while trying to butter bread with the other – no easy feat, it turns out. I give up and make a concerted effort to feel liberated and Pangean. And unbelievably my inhibitions do start to melt away a little. After all, when the waiting staff are more or less in their birthday suits, even a bra makes you feel overdressed.
I don’t even recoil into my gown when the male manager, Ignacio Jimenez – wearing only a pair of pants - sits down for a chat. How do they plan to keep the place hygienic with thousands of sweaty bums set to sit on the wooden seats over the summer, I ask? The bottom line is, they don’t.
‘We clean them with water every day but we’ve got to keep it rustic,’ he says. ‘We can’t compromise the natural part of it. Everyone goes to the beach and sits where other people have sat and this isn't much different.' Unconvinced, I edge sideways onto my dressing gown.
If you’re more food buff than butler in the buff then the £69 menu at Bunyadi probably isn’t for you. The back-to-nature vibe means food is either raw or cooked over a fire and includes a splash-proof five courses with the likes of pickled apples, stuffed courgette flowers and steak Tartare.
Afterwards, in the bar, a fellow naked diner, 24-year-old Emily Hodgkin, tells me she was drawn to the restaurant’s ‘fun, novel’ aspect. ‘I’m quite body confident so I’m not anxious about getting naked,’ she adds.
Olivia Cox, 28, thought otherwise. ‘It’s like a pervy boy’s apartment in there,’ she tells me. ‘I don’t want to get naked after a five-course meal. I can’t imagine any woman wanting to do that.’
Did I feel more liberated afterwards? Yes, but then that might have been the vodka and avocado cocktails. Will I be stripping off for dinner more often from now on? Doubtful. I'm happy living in the post-Pangean world, thank you very much. If that makes me a prude, so be it. I've never had a problem dressing for dinner.
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