Jay M.
Google
One walks into Chez Wam at the St. Regis Gardens, and immediately you realise you’ve left the sensible world of sensible dining behind. The air is thick with a certain je ne sais quoi—a delicious, funky coolness that suggests the architect had a far more interesting life than any of us. It’s the sort of place that makes you check your shoes and wonder if you're quite chic enough. But then the food arrives, and frankly, all existential dread melts away.
Let's not be coy: I came for the meat. Specifically, the Tomahawk Steak. And oh, sweet merciful gravy, what a magnificent creature it was. It wasn't just a steak; it was an event, a performance, a piece of perfectly charred, pink-centred theatre. It was, in a word, peerless.
But the kitchen, thankfully, isn't a one-trick pony. The Short Ribs were a study in luxurious decay, falling apart with the merest suggestion of a fork, their savoury depth a joyous counterpoint to the steak’s brute elegance. And the sides? Often the afterthought, the neglected middle child of the plate, but here they were delicious—crisp, buttery, and exactly the sort of supporting cast a main act deserves.
And the backdrop to all this culinary swagger? The DJ. They were weaving sonic gold, dropping track after track—bona fide bangers that had the room bobbing in a way that’s just so perfectly Dubai. It transforms a mere meal into a proper night out.
This is not where you come for a quiet, introspective moment of celery contemplation. Chez Wam is where you go to be seen, to be fed handsomely, and to have a thoroughly great meal with friends who appreciate a serious cut of meat and a cracking tune.
