These 12 TikTok-Famous London Experiences Are Totally Worth Missing

This blown-out church is a large part of London’s history. Constructed in 1100, it was ruined in the Great Fire of London, rebuilt by Christopher Wren, blown apart in the Blitz, and then its remains were opened to the public as a place of peace and reflection. For decades, frazzled city workers sought tranquillity beneath its stunning arches and crumbling walls. Instagram has turned St. Dunstans from a lesser-known lunchtime oasis to a place where aspiring models congregate en masse, borrowing the beautiful bones of the building and its skyscraper backdrop for their shoots.

Head south to find genuine calm in St. Bride’s Church on Fleet Street. The Wren creation was also Blitzed but faithfully rebuilt to act as a spiritual sanctuary for journalists working on the famed road. Its altar memorializing reporters killed in the line of duty is surprisingly moving.

The disused paper factory turned street food market and cocktail establishment is probably the answer to the following ChatGPT prompt. “I need to organize a work social, but my colleagues all like different things, and there’s loads of them. Where can I go?” Mercato Metropolitano and its 40 food vendors have something for everyone but everything for no one. Between admittedly delicious but expensive fare from the likes of Badiani (Italian gelato), Sticks and Ceviche (Latin American grill), and OshPaz (Uzbek), you’ll find yourself lost in a cold, cavernous space, wondering where your friends have got to and if this is how melancholic children feel in a soft-play center.

Hop on the 21 buses towards New Cross and check out La Placita Mall instead. You’ll be shown to a long wooden table where competing vendors will tempt you with sprawling, laminated menus of Colombian, Ecuadorian, Peruvian, and Venezuelan treats. Finish your massive plate of fried-whatever with a shot of tequila and a banana split.

It all began with a Reddit post. “Angus Steakhouse does an awesome steak sandwich. Influencers should try it and be amazed.” Soon, others joined in, taking all opportunities to highlight the vast Leicester Square eatery whenever an unsuspecting commenter asked for dinner recommendations. Several weeks later, the much-maligned Angus Steakhouse has reached the top of the city’s rankings. The ruse was concocted to protect London’s great up-and-coming restaurants from becoming overwhelmed and ruined by punters hungry for the next big thing by forming an SEO shield that diverts hungry, guileless tourists towards a steak the London Standard recently called “sad” and “seasoned with despair.” Make sure you avoid falling for the trick.

Primrose Hill is undeniably as beautiful a place as its name would suggest. The affluent neighborhood sits next to Regents Park and Camden, combining rows of Regency townhouses with a north London edge the oligarch-gutted Kensington and Chelsea could only ever dream of. At the neighborhood’s center is a gated park, bought from Eton College and made public in 1841. The city view from the top of its 63m tall hill is as majestic as the branches of the Shakespeare Oak planted on its side to mark the Bard’s 300th birthday. The problem is everyone knows about it. Venture up to Primrose Hill anytime other than a drizzly Tuesday afternoon, and you’ll be joined by crowds of day-trippers. Think you can dodge a fireworks night entry fee by going to the park? You and half of London will have to think again.

Instead, head to One Tree Hill in south London’s Honour Oak or to the Parkland Walk in Muswell Hill up north. The hills are higher, the views more dramatic, and the company is limited to an occasional runner or weed-smoking teenager.

Slap bang in the center of London is the magnificent Palace of Westminster, home to the two houses of Parliament, the Commons and Lords. As crumbly, dysfunctional, and apparently at constant risk of bursting into flames as the inside of the building is, the outside is undeniably quite magnificent. The trouble is that viewing it is deeply unpleasant. On the north side, you’re stuck on the fume-choked traffic island of Parliament Square, often at the mercy of irate campaigners of some kind. To the south, you’re on Westminster Bridge, where hucksters now charge tourists to stand on selfie platforms so they can raise themselves up and out of the crowds enough to have a picture with Charles Barry’s gothic-revival masterpiece. Dazed sightseers regularly find themselves mowed down by cyclists forced down a tiny bike lane next to the prime photo spot. A much nicer way to see the Palace and many other Thameside destinations is to hop on a boat. Uber’s Thames Clipper can take you through most of the city for less than a tenner.

In fairness to Roti King, it deserves the hype. The Singaporean-Malaysian restaurant is a bring-your-own-booze establishment that whips up the best nasi goreng, kari laksa, and roti canai you’ll likely find anywhere in Europe. The problem is it has about 15 seats and a huge reputation. Twice, I made it into the dingy subterranean basement restaurant after queueing for an hour. Five other times, the length of the line made me tap out. There is no obvious system available to beat the rush. Just make sure to bring a snacking satsuma if you’re going to get peckish.

Once defeated by the queue, walk 10 minutes east to Dim Sum Duck, where they provide similar levels of slightly rude, brisk hospitality, white plastic chairs to make the half-hour queue more comfortable, and a completely delicious fried dim sum.

Much like the 1985 John Hughes film of the same name, London’s Breakfast Club needs a reassessment. Not because its sexual politics are outdated but because it’s too busy, too expensive, and too shiny. Admittedly, the idea is a solid one. Bring together the aesthetic and glamour of an American diner with a greasy spoon menu, plonk it in an area with a committed brunch crowd, and watch the pounds roll in. However, success has hurt the Breakfast Club, which often requires you to wade through a considerable queue to drop £16 on ‘The All American’ or fried chicken, bacon, and waffles.

Anyone who takes greasy, hung-over breakfasts seriously knows that £10 is the hard ceiling for a decently priced fry-up in London. £15 and up is a joke. Head north to New River Cafe by Clissold Park, where you can enjoy the plentiful veg brek 2 with a cup of instant coffee and a Daily Star for £8.

“Git ya strawberries! Three punnets for a paand!” So rang the call of Portobello Market traders for many a decade. Today, travelers gathering around 280 Westbourne Park Road telling one another, “That is where Hugh Grant lived in Notting Hill” has replaced that sprightly plea. It’s true that the area is as pretty and charming as the Richard Curtis film makes out. The market is simply far too busy at the weekends, while produce of questionable quality is too expensive. The old fruit and veg floggers are now mostly gone, replaced by bric-a-brac and fake vintage stalls whose origin should be very closely scrutinized before a purchase is made.

Hop on a train to the diametrically opposite side of London and spend an afternoon at the Greenwich Vintage Market. Massive slabs of pizza cost £3.50 and provide enough energy to get you around tables piled high with old sheepskin coats, crystal decanters, and, if you’re very lucky, WWII trinkets no one really has any business buying or selling.

The Sherlock Holmes Museum is a catastrophe of a place that does not deserve the central London plot it squats on, which isn’t 221B Baker Street as its door claims, and many a confused postman and woman will attest. The museum dances along a suspicious line between fact and fiction, giving the impression that Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson were real Victorian detectives throughout a few cramped information and display-light rooms. Tired-looking Museum staff rush punters through to the gift shop before they figure out whether any artifacts are real and if the £20 entry is worth it. At this point, you’d be forgiven for trying to cheer yourself up by investing in a £28 miniature deer stalker for your cat or dog or buying a ludicrously expensive poor interpretation of fish and chips from one of the joints nearby. Do not do it.

Forgive yourself for falling into the stickiest of tourist trap areas and move on to one of the much more interesting museums nearby. The Jewish Museum in Camden, the macabre but fabulous Hunterian in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, or the National History Museum in South Kensington are all much better options.

When the towering 135m high London Eye began spinning at the turn of the millennium, it was the tallest Ferris wheel in the world and a great source of national pride. Tales of brave construction workers camping above the slabs of the Southbank far below filled the newspapers, with its temporary and white-elephant status quickly forgotten once everyone had had a go. A quarter of a century later, and most Londoners now largely think of the lastminute.com London Eye (its official name, please use it as a mark of respect) as an impressive launch pad for New Year’s Eve fireworks and a place where clogging gaggles of back-pack wearing tourists congregate.

Perhaps as a symbol of shifting geopolitical power, these days, the shining wheel is dwarfed most notably by the monstrous-although-totally-nonfunctional Ain Dubai, which stands at 250m. There are alternatives if you want a view of London but don’t want to move at the tortuous 26 centimeters per second the London Eye offers (twice the pace of a full-tilt Tortoise). Save yourself the £29+ entry fee and hefty queue by heading east to Heron Tower on Liverpool Street, where a break-neck lift will rocket you up 175m to Sushi Samba or Duck and Waffle. They may be a byword for snazzy and the location of many a regrettably expensive date night, but fork out for a single beer and enjoy the view, you’ve got a bargain.