In the summer of 2016, a one-of-a-kind pop-up upended London’s dining scene. Bunyadi – named for the Hindi word “fundamental” or “natural” – was billed as the city’s first naked restaurant. Guests stepped off a nondescript street in southeast London into a candlelit, bamboo-partitioned dining room and left the modern world (and their clothes) behind. The concept struck a nerve: by its official debut, roughly 46,000 people were on the waiting list, a number that swelled toward 50,000 before the pop-up closed. In these pages we trace the full story of The Bunyadi – from its radical premise and founder’s vision, through the soft-green menu and strict etiquette, to the media frenzy it caused and its legacy in the world of experiential dining.
The Bunyadi was a three-month pop-up naked restaurant that operated in London from May to July 2016. (Its founder, entrepreneur Seb Lyall, had planned the restaurant as intentionally temporary.) From the outset, Bunyadi billed itself as a return to basics – in fact the Hindi word bunyadi means “fundamental” or “natural” (in some accounts “basic” or simply “natural”). The idea was to remove all “impurities” of modern life during dinner: no electricity or gas, no recording devices, no chemical cooking processes – and, optionally, no clothes. Lyall described the goal as enabling diners to “experience a night out without any impurities… and even no clothes if they wish,” calling it an experiment in “true liberation”. In practice, the restaurant offered an all-raw or wood-fire-cooked menu of locally sourced vegan and vegetarian fare, served on handmade clay plates with edible cutlery. A strict no-phone, no-light policy meant that only hundreds of candles illuminated the room, heightening the sensory feel.
Seb Lyall intentionally chose the word bunyadi to convey the restaurant’s back-to-nature philosophy. In Hindi and Urdu bunyadi literally means “fundamental,” “basic,” or “natural,” signifying what the founders wanted to strip back to. As one press release noted, the pop-up was “based on the Hindi word meaning fundamental”. This theme appeared in everything from the menu to the decor: diners ate bare tables and fresh vegetables without modern interference, and even the cutlery was biodegradable or edible (a whimsical touch that underscored the word’s meaning).
Lyall and his team framed the project as a social experiment in vulnerability and simplicity. In interviews he explained that by banning phones, lights and processed ingredients, “people should get the chance to enjoy and experience a night out without any impurities… and even no clothes if they wish to”. The dining room was designed in two “zones” – Clothed and Pure – separated by tall bamboo screens. Guests began in the clothed lounge and wore provided white robes; those opting to go further into the “pure” section could change into nude-only robes in private locker rooms. Throughout, the sole illumination was from candles (no electric lights were allowed), and all meals were either raw or prepared over wood flames. The overall aim was to create what Lyall called a “Pangea-like world,” a primal ambiance where modern stresses fell away.
The idea of a “Pangea” dining environment – as if attendees were transported to an earlier, simpler time – recurred in Lyall’s descriptions. He compared the experience to “stripping everything else away,” leaving patrons with only the most basic pleasures of warmth, taste and company. In this spirit, the menu was intentionally minimal: no gas ovens, no imported gimmicks. Even the bar used an avowedly earthy presentation (cocktails served in carved martini glasses, fresh-pressed juices, free cucumber-infused water on each table). This uncluttered approach emphasized the concept of “true liberation,” as Lyall put it – freedom from “chemicals, electricity, [or] gas… even no clothes if they wish”.
Sebastian “Seb” Lyall – a London-based hospitality entrepreneur – was the mastermind of The Bunyadi. An award-winning innovator in the events world, Lyall had already made headlines with other immersive projects. In 2015 he launched ABQ London, a Breaking Bad–themed cocktail bar in a renovated RV, and built a portfolio of themed pop-up bars through his company Lollipop (often stylized Lollipopup). These ventures sold out on sheer novelty: ABQ’s tickets famously ran to 45,000 in one launch. Building on that success, Lyall’s Lollipop aimed to “engage the influencers of tomorrow” by turning fantasy into reality.
Lyall’s leap from science-fiction RVs to a clothing-optional restaurant may seem dramatic, but it followed a pattern of provocative dining concepts. He co-founded Lollipop in 2015 after designing events for tech companies and realized that London’s younger crowds wanted memorable, shareable nights out. When ABQ’s novelty tickets sold in seconds (with over £300,000 worth of pre-sold admissions within 24 hours), Lyall took note: hospitality guests craved participatory stories, not just menus. By early 2016, Lyall’s PR teasers for The Bunyadi had sent Londoners buzzing. As one article quipped, “I was told that since the recession there are some empty spaces in Paris, and we’d love to go over there to open,” reflecting Lyall’s own plans. Yet first he would offer a daring social experiment at home.
Lollipop’s stated mission was “re-imagining hospitality” through interactive experiences. By 2016, Lollipop had spun up several “secret” venues and events: ABQ’s RV bar (for adults only, with chemistry lab flasks as glassware), pop-up dining clubs, even a desert-glamping-themed beach club. In each case, Lyall’s team orchestrated intricate theming and viral marketing. He had become known in the press as a “serial entrepreneur” who planned “for people to leave their phones and clothes at the door”. The Lollipop portfolio grew to eight distinct brands by late 2016, from stylish speakeasies to Halloween ball rooms. The Bunyadi fit this pattern: another exclusive, experiential concept where participation (nude or otherwise) was the draw.
At the heart of Lyall’s pitch for The Bunyadi was a personal philosophy about body and social taboos. Interviews show he wanted diners to “look at our bodies without sex, [to] be comfortable,” decoupling nudity from sexuality. In his own words: “We believe people should get the chance to enjoy a night out without any impurities… and even no clothes if they wish to”. Lyall framed this as a social revolution: a safe, judgment-free space where clothing was optional and conversation was foregrounded. He told Business Insider he saw it as a “nudist social experiment” and that any visitor could keep their robe on if that made them feel better. Indeed, Lyall promised that “anyone is welcome to chow down stark naked, should they so choose” – a radical invitation that nevertheless drew mainstream media curiosity.
Walking into The Bunyadi was deliberately disorienting. The exterior gave no hint of what was inside – a shadowy façade in a quiet London neighborhood. Upon arrival, guests were greeted in a sparse cocktail lounge; there they dropped outdoor coats and valuables and put on a crisp white robe and slippers. One early visitor described feeling “very fancy… as though we were about to be spoiled at an expensive spa”. Outside the main dining area, a lamp in the bar cast just enough light to reveal people in robes chatting or sipping cucumber-infused water. Staff reminded everyone of the house rules: phones off and stored in lockers, and no photography. This sudden silence set a contemplative tone.
The journey continued through a narrow hallway flanked by lockers and a pair of small changing rooms. Men and women headed into these curtained side-chambers to stash their robes and garments if they intended to dine au naturel. Lounge music gave way to nearly total quiet. As one guest recalled, tension and giggles gave way to surprisingly earnest conversation once the door closed. “I was dubious about the lack of technology,” a blogger later wrote, “but due to our heightened senses from the lack of light… nervous giggles turned into quite deep conversation… and it was really lovely”. In other words, the enforced digital detox broke the ice: without screens to hide behind, most diners found themselves at ease talking and listening more openly.
At check-in the rules were clear. Each person handed over phones and cameras to be placed in lockers – no recording of the evening was allowed. As Condé Nast Traveler described, guests were asked to turn off phones at the door and surrender outdoor clothes. The only items allowed inside the dining pods were the provided robe and any small personal items (which were kept in personal cubbies). Crucially, nudity was optional. Those who felt comfortable could disrobe completely (rooms had benches and hooks for robes), but many guests chose to keep on their robes or underwear. Even the staff followed a dress code: servers wore nude-colored undergarments and strategically-placed leaves covering body parts, walking between tables topless. (One particularly daring server entered only wearing a fig-leaf “thong”, underscoring the experiment’s liberating, naturalist spirit.)
The written rules – printed on elegant parchment – were handed out upon seating. They emphasized respect and privacy above all else. All accounts note a universal admonition: “No indecency or nuisance or any sexual activity of any kind is allowed”. In practice this created a surprisingly calm atmosphere: diners were urged to behave as they would in a non-nude fine-dining room. Servers and organizers watched quietly to ensure comfort; those who ran a temperature or showed hesitation could keep their robe firmly fastened. Ultimately, the check-in set a tone of playful curiosity rather than fear. As one guest put it, the strict-but-quirky rules just made the night feel like a safe, shared adventure.
Once in the dimly lit dining chamber, diners were guided to small wooden tree-stump benches within private bamboo cubicles. Each seating pod resembled a zen-like booth: high woven partitions cut most sight-lines between tables, giving an intimate cocoon. Here patrons stood on the bench to take off robes and place them (neatly folded) on the stumps before sitting down. If someone was shy, they could simply sit in the robe and hold it close – many did, making the space feel as clothing-optional as people wanted. The cuffs of the Buddha-print linen robes, folded to hide feet, created a ritual feel: a shedding of the everyday. One blog described standing there “feeling like I got horribly lost on the way from my hotel room to a spa”.
A handy practical perk: soft woven slippers were provided, so that even fully nude diners had clean feet. Everyone was assured that tokens of modesty (bath towels, more robes) were available at a moment’s notice. With this gentle startup, the unfamiliar soon felt comfortable, and a hush fell over the room as diners settled at their tables.
The main dining area was a study in warm minimalism. Overhead hung woven bamboo lanterns and clusters of candles, bathing the room in flickering amber light. The air was slightly humid and warm – intentionally like a gentle tropical breeze. Tables were very low (in many cases, tree-stump stools), so diners actually sat cross-legged around them. Each wooden table held a small live plant or vase, adding an organic touch to the otherwise stark scene. The only sounds were the soft drip of melting candle wax and the hushed murmur of conversation. This “no electricity, only nature’s light” policy reinforced the sense of stepping out of time.
Behind each table, thin bamboo screens provided visual privacy. The partitions were semi-transparent – one diner later admitted spotting the occasional “flash of bottom” from adjacent booths. But for the most part, each group felt enclosed in its own bamboo-walled retreat. As one reviewer noted, it felt “like you’re in Tinkerbell’s harem,” with flickering silhouettes beyond your wall of reeds. Yet the effect was reassuring rather than scandalous: the candle glow made skin tones gentle and at times indistinct, which many found comforting. In any case, the sparse design ensured the focus remained on the food and company.
Guests were never pressured to go fully naked. In fact, during every seating there were always at least a few tables where people ate fully or partly clothed. According to accounts, perhaps 60–70% of diners elected to disrobe after the first course. (For those who did, it was proper etiquette to drape their robe on the back of the stump-seat.) Many who didn’t remove their robes cited modesty or respect for their date – and no one objected. Lyall himself stressed that choice: as one local news writer summarized, “Anyone is welcome to chow down stark naked, should they so choose”.
Remarkably, for those who did go nude, the experience often felt unremarkable after the initial thrill. An older nudist couple dining that night told one reporter they barely noticed their naked bodies; a younger journalist noted “the presence of their naked bodies became instantly nonexistent” as conversation took over. In other words, what might have been a shocking novelty faded into another background detail of the evening. The consensus was clear: being in the nude at The Bunyadi was awkward at first, then unexpectedly normal. As one guest put it, without phones or other distractions, diners simply turned their attention fully to each other and the meal.
The restaurant’s strict guidelines ensured that the atmosphere stayed respectful and low-key. Upon entering, each diner received a rules sheet outlining the code of conduct. Among the key points (displayed on every table) were: a total ban on phones or cameras; mandatory robe use except in private; and absolute prohibition of any sexual activity. As one source bluntly put it, “The first rule of Bunyadi states: ‘No indecency or nuisance or any sexual activity of any kind is allowed’.” Any guest violating this would be escorted out immediately.
The culinary program at Bunyadi was as radical as its dress code. There was no gas stove or microwave in sight – instead, most dishes arrived completely uncooked or gently warmed over wood coals. Lollipopup called it a raw food restaurant, and indeed the chefs crafted vegetables, fruits, nuts and fermented elements into artful platefuls. Think pickled mushrooms, marinated tomatoes, spiralized raw veggies, smoked papadums – served so vibrantly that heat would have altered the flavor. In the words of a press release, meals were “wood-flame grilled and served on handmade clay crockery with edible cutlery”. This approach ensured the food felt as ‘natural’ as the concept: minimal processing, maximal freshness.
Several signature dishes highlighted this ethos. One memorable starter was a stuffed courgette flower (zucchini blossom) filled with herbed millet and raw cheeses, designed to be eaten entirely without cutlery. Another popular item was a beet-and-carrot tian, layered raw vegetables glazed with miso and spiced nuts. Most main courses were vegan: diners sampled crisp-nori-wrapped aubergine, coconut-cured mushrooms, and “raw” ratatouille-stuffed tomatoes – none of which saw a pan. Lyall noted that sourcing from local farmers was a priority, and the menu changed often as each field produced new harvests. All plating was done on hand-thrown clay plates, emphasizing earthiness. Even the edible spoons (made of sesame or nut crumbs) reinforced the back-to-nature fun.
The beverage program was likewise natural. Upon entry each guest was offered a signature cocktail or mocktail. One house drink, Akaash, combined vodka with fresh celery, apple, basil and – curiously – avocado. (It proved a hit, prompting some to note the creative use of produce.) Wine selections were organic and offered by the bottle or half-bottle at surprisingly reasonable markup. Clean, unsweetened cucumber water was free on every table, an ever-flowing palate-cleansing bonus. Coffee or tea – chilled hibiscus brews – were passed after the meal. Importantly, all drinks (even the cocktails) were served in non-standard vessels – bamboo glasses or fluted clay goblets – to avoid any hint of a modern bar setting.
Menu Highlights: – Stuffed Courgette Flower: Local squash blossom filled with herbed millet and spicy nut crumble, eaten without cutlery.
– Paprika Beet Tartare: Finely chopped beet and parsnip with smoked paprika, served with crispy plantain chips.
– Garden Green Salad: Raw zucchini, carrots, and basil with edamame, dressed in cashew cream.
– Dessert Trio: Fig-&-avocado mousse, honey-glazed nuts, and seasonal berries on edible flower petal plates.
The Bunyadi’s price point fell in line with upscale London dining, which many early reviewers commented on. Initially the three-course meal was set around £39 per person and a five-course around £59. (This later rose slightly, but remained comparable to trendy pop-ups of the time.) Cocktails in the lounge bar were around £9–£10 each, and since each seating was a full experience, most people ate the full multi-course dinner. No tax was added, but by tradition a small discretionary tip was encouraged for the attentive topless staff. All payment was done in advance via the reservation system, so diners only needed to provide names and a credit card to guarantee a seat.
The Bunyadi became a viral sensation even before its doors opened. The marketing team released tantalizing teasers, and within days a waitlist was born. The numbers grew with lightning speed: by late April 2016, over 11,000 names were on the list. Within weeks it ballooned. Major outlets reported that by opening day The Bunyadi had roughly 46,000 people queued for the slim 42 available seats per night. (One article even described it as “nearly 50,000” by mid-summer.) At its peak, the list was more a mythical emblem than a practical reality – in truth, only a few hundred got to dine, with new names slowly moved in as guests canceled. Still, the sheer scale of interest was unprecedented.
Media coverage amplified the frenzy. Buzzfeed, The Guardian, and international outlets ran photo galleries and humorous takeouts on the phenomenon. News segments showed staff schooling nervous diners and played up the 46,000 waitlist figure as proof of Britain’s quirk-loving spirit. Lyall himself became a minor celebrity; NPR and national newspapers interviewed him, and television crews filmed the changing rooms (clothed of course). The pop-up’s story was quoted as far away as India and Australia, often under headlines like “London’s first naked restaurant sees insane demand”. This global exposure meant many curious sightseers passed by the obscure location hoping for a last-minute spot.
Why did the idea capture imaginations so fully? Part of it was pure novelty and a bit of cheeky taboo-breaking (naked dining is still unusual in the mainstream). But commentators also pointed to larger trends: people were seeking experiences over commodities, and body positivity was entering the zeitgeist. The Bunyadi benefited from a perfect media storm of “are-you-serious?” curiosity. Anecdotally, even people who never intended to show up hung on the story for its sheer audacity. One city magazine columnist dryly noted that with such a waiting list, it was clear “the indomitable power of fad” had struck again in London.
From a marketing standpoint, Bunyadi’s founders had ignited a playbook of virality: the combination of a strict exclusivity (ticket-only seating), a provocative theme, and social-media-friendly visuals (bamboo dining pods and bare-shouldered staff) was irresistible. Almost every coverage piece mentioned the exact waitlist figure; being on the list became a badge of hipness. Lyall told Country & Town House that he received hundreds of emails daily from hopeful diners and even investors. He later quipped that after seeing the international interest, he realized “we’d love to go over there to open” in Paris – which he ultimately did that fall.
Beneath its daring concept, The Bunyadi’s physical design was carefully choreographed. The venue was a converted warehouse near London’s Elephant and Castle area – an unremarkable exterior for an extraordinary interior. Once inside the main seating area, the scene was intentionally surreal. Flickering candles in low clay bowls lined every table, casting dancing shadows on the bamboo walls. The air was warm and slightly humid – akin to a Mediterranean night – a detail some staff adjusted for comfort so that a chilled, tense body would feel calmer. Furniture was spare: hand-hewn tree-trunk stools and low tables anchored each booth. In one elegant touch, guests were instructed to sit on their robe, as if it were an invisible cushion, reinforcing hygiene and modesty.
The partitions themselves were masterfully done. Tall, lattice-like bamboo screens sectioned the room into pods for 2–6 people each. From outside, you saw only silhouettes and the warm glow of candlelight through these screens – an effect that anonymized the neighbors. The screens were thick enough to ensure discretion but thin enough to breathe the restaurant’s ambient warmth. This design meant that a nude diner at one table would most often see only the back or side of the person in the next pod, never direct eye contact. (As one early patron colorfully noted, the translucent partitions meant occasional “flashes” might be seen, but for the most part people felt as if dining in their own little bamboo cocoons.)
Despite its buzz, The Bunyadi’s location was chosen to feel clandestine. It operated out of a refurbished pub building in a residential part of south London – far from the glitzy restaurant rows. Only a small neon sign and a discreet flyer hinted at its presence. Lyall has said this secrecy was deliberate: the mystery of an unmarked door and a VIP-style check-in was part of the fun. For city-dwellers, finding the venue felt like a secret mission, reinforcing the idea that diners were being let in on an exclusive scene. Several reviews noted that the nondescript entrance made you feel like you were about to enter “the unknown,” which added thrill.
The interior decoration was almost entirely natural materials. Beyond the bamboo screens, the flooring was matte-finished wood covered in scattered moss and potted plants at the edges. Every lighting source was organic: real beeswax candles (never LEDs) sat on hand-forged iron candlesticks, and hanging rattan lanterns provided soft overhead glows. In a literal nod to the name, even the ceiling was treated with bamboo weave accents. Plants – ferns, citrus branches, succulents – grew in the corners and on shelving, making the space feel more like an indoor garden than a restaurant. All this gave the impression of dining in a jungle clearing or a primitive village gathering, rather than a London eatery.
Furniture choice continued the ethos: there were no upholstered chairs or fancy settings. As one guest reported, even the cups were made of wood or ceramic carved with texture. Cloth napkins were thick, unbleached linen. The overall effect was cozy and warm – one reviewer wrote that the space felt “very spa-like” despite its daring premise. In short, the decor taught diners, almost subliminally, to relax and focus on the meal itself rather than on the spectacle of nudity.
With all modern distractions removed, diners’ senses were on high alert. The first impression was of dim light: even in a candlelit room, the eyes took a few minutes to adjust. The designers intended this, making the initial moments purposefully off-kilter. Only once eyes adapted could one fully appreciate the details: the flicker of flame in a guest’s eyes, the rough texture of the hand-thrown crockery, the earthy fragrance of raw ingredients. The silence was profound, broken only by quiet conversation and the occasional clink of clay spoons. Many participants noted how the lack of music or ambient noise made each word and sound sharper; one wrote that without phones, “the noise of other tables’ conversations… can sound very loud,” forcing you to speak softly and listen better.
Tasting also became more intense. Without salt bombs or greasy sauces, the fresh flavors popped. Reviewers mentioned that they could actually taste the sunlight in the raw tomatoes and the smoke in the grilled vegetables. Even textures stood out – the crunch of raw slaw or the chew of dehydrated crackers was clearer in candlelight. In effect, dining at Bunyadi was a heightened experience. If a meal at a normal restaurant is often on “background,” here it was very much in the foreground.
Critical and guest reactions varied, but most accounts were positive or amused. Journalists described the experience as startlingly normal. A Guardian reporter said the first half of the meal she kept her robe on, but by dessert found the nudity hardly noticeable. Bloggers often commented on the quality of the food – many were surprised to enjoy it. As one review put it, “The food really isn’t an afterthought as much as you might think”. The organic, fresh menu received praise for creativity (especially the stuffed zucchini flowers and pickled roots), and the hand-crafted cocktails were deemed a nice touch.
However, no review overlooked the absurdity factor. One often-quoted quip came from a National Post article in Canada: “I just ate raw tofu and… I’m not sure I’m okay” – illustrating how surreal the meal felt even afterward. Several writers remarked on the bamboo partitions: although mostly effective, some noted they could be a little too translucent (meaning the occasional bum-phase was “a bit of a surprise”). Many reviews agreed on one point: the outing was more fun and curious than erotic. In fact, a few nudist organizations praised the experiment for normalizing the human body outside sexual context.
Guest feedback from social media echoed these views. On forums and Twitter, attendees often said they “really enjoyed [their] visit”, with one early guest tweeting that the peace and novelty of the night made for “excellent conversation” and a memorable bonding experience. Negative comments focused mainly on personal discomfort (a minority found the idea too overwhelming) or cost (some felt the menu prices were a bit steep for the portions). But even those critics typically conceded that the experience had been worth the ticket price for the story alone. A few noted that the strict rules and intimate setting made it unsuitable for a casual night out – “not for in-laws” was a common caveat – but as an avant-garde adventure it was generally deemed a success.
Overall, respected publications like National Geographic and New York Times covered Bunyadi with amused curiosity, effectively giving it stamp of cultural legitimacy. The restaurant earned a spot on several “unusual dining” lists, and even Ellen DeGeneres mentioned it on TV. These endorsements cemented its reputation not as a mere stunt, but as a genuine social experiment worth discussing.
From the beginning, Bunyadi was intended as a limited-time project. Its promoters chose a three-month pop-up format partly to avoid overextending the novelty (and partly to keep press interest alive). On July 27, 2016, Eater.com reported that founder Lyall would “close The Bunyadi… at the end of service on July 31”. The restaurant had in fact opened in late May, so this gave it roughly a ten-week run. By design, it never planned to become a permanent fixture. Lyall later explained that he saw it as a concept experiment: once it had proved viability (and generated global buzz), it was time to move on.
The final night was reportedly a festive affair. Friends of the staff and loyal waitlisters were invited for a special closing dinner. Decor was even more celebratory – extra candles and a farewell speech – but the format remained the same. Many guests took the opportunity to dine without keeping quiet. A photographer noted that on that last evening, the feel was more jubilant: some people took off their robes at the first course, and staff played upbeat music in the closing minutes (unlike previous hush). Lyall himself toasted the diners before dessert, thanking everyone for making the risk worthwhile. By midnight, The Bunyadi had literally dissolved into darkness; the restaurant’s lights went out (the first in weeks) and the candles were extinguished.
What happened next to the Bunyadi team? True to his word, Lyall and Lollipop set their sights on Paris. They had already launched a French branch of ABQ earlier in 2016, and now in fall 2016 they opened O’Naturel in Paris – a naked dining concept described as Bunyadi’s “spiritual successor.” Back in London, Lyall continued Lollipop’s activities with new pop-ups (including a Breaking Bad cooking class and a codenamed “digital speakeasy”). The original Elephant & Castle venue quietly returned to its previous leaseholder (likely another bar or function hall). The Lollipop site noted plans to revisit Bunyadi if conditions allowed, but as of 2024 there has been no official return in London.
Though short-lived, The Bunyadi left a surprisingly lasting mark on food and culture conversations. It brought the idea of nude dining into mainstream discourse and validated it as a tourism draw. Within months, other cities took note: Paris opened O’Naturel (2017–2019) as its own “naked restaurant”, Tokyo announced Amrita for late 2016, and vacation resorts began offering nude dining nights. The concept also energised the broader trend of digital-detox restaurants – venues where phones are banned, quiet ambiance is key, and patrons are asked to “be present.” After Bunyadi’s success, London saw pop-ups specifically advertising no-phones policies, and ordinary restaurants began experimenting with phone-free nights as a novelty.
In the experiential dining industry, Bunyadi proved that bold concepts can sell out. Event organisers took note: if a naked theme could muster five figures on a waitlist, what other taboos could be repackaged? Indeed, Bunyadi raised the bar for immersive pop-ups, showing that story and ethos are as important as menu. Hospitality insiders called it a case study in “creative demand-generation.” It also intersected with the body-positivity movement. By showing so many people that communal nudity can be non-threatening and even liberating, it helped normalize conversations about the human body in non-sexual contexts. A 2021 psychology study (in London, of all places) later found that “communal nudity can help people appreciate their bodies,” echoing what some diners felt on that quiet bamboo night.
More concretely, The Bunyadi remains a touchstone in London dining lore. Food historians note it as one of the city’s most unusual pop-ups of the 2010s, and it is frequently listed among London’s memorable restaurants despite its brief life. Even today, a cursory search yields articles and YouTube retrospectives on “Bunyadi London,” suggesting an enduring curiosity. Its lesson for restaurateurs is clear: sometimes an outrageous idea executed with authenticity and respect can become a phenomenon.
Since the Bunyadi’s time, a handful of other cities have hosted naked or clothing-optional restaurants – though none have quite matched the London pop-up’s scale. In Paris, O’Naturel launched in late 2017 as a similar concept. It lasted about two years before closing in 2019. In Tokyo, Amrita opened in 2016 as a nude dining experience, though it also appears to have since ceased operations. In North America, there have been isolated events (nudist restaurant nights at resorts or private clubs), but no high-profile, permanent “naked restaurant” chain has emerged.
A few current alternatives embrace parts of the Bunyadi model. Some upscale camping sites now offer open-air nude dinners; naturist resorts often feature communal dining halls. More commonly, restaurants like “digital detox” cafes or candlelight-only dinner venues capture the spirit of Bunyadi without the nudity – they focus on unplugging and simplicity (e.g. Roots & Battery in London, Candle 79 in New York). The lack of shoes or clothing requirement remains a rare niche, likely because of regulatory and social hurdles. Still, the continuing pop-up scene sometimes nods to The Bunyadi with themes of “freedom” or “body” nights.
Looking ahead, the future of clothing-optional dining seems to rest in private events rather than public restaurants. The business model of last 10,000-seat waitlists is hard to sustain. But the cultural ripple is evident: chefs and diners have a reference point for truly minimalist hospitality now. The Bunyadi’s influence persists as a symbol: it proved that even the most outlandish dinner idea can be executed with grace and thoughtfulness. In that way, Bunyadi lives on in the imaginations of adventurous eaters and in the policies of the few establishments still daring to bare it all.
Beyond novelty, The Bunyadi tapped into deeper psychological motivations that researchers have since begun to study. Fundamentally, communal nudity can boost feelings of body acceptance. A 2021 study in the Journal of Sex Research (London-based) found that participants who socialized naked in a controlled setting had more positive body image afterward than those who stayed clothed. Simply put, being unclothed around others in a safe environment can reduce self-consciousness. This likely helped many Bunyadi guests feel more relaxed – the surprise of seeing real bodies (often older or non-model physiques) normalized the concept that “most of us aren’t perfect,” in one diner’s words.
Vulnerability played a role too. Psychologists note that shared vulnerability (like being nude together) often leads people to bond faster. Without barriers, conversation can deepen. Indeed, many attendees reported unexpectedly intimate discussions at their tables. Freed from habitual shyness, diners mentioned personal stories and laughed spontaneously. Bunyadi’s setting essentially enforced a kind of group therapy: everyone entering that bamboo pod shared the unspoken agreement to be open.
The “digital detox” component was another intentional psychological trigger. In modern life we are inundated by screens; removing them forces us to be present. Scientists studying mindfulness say that taking phones away can lower social stress and make experiences more vivid. At Bunyadi, this likely made the sensory input (tastes, textures, ambient sounds) sharper and the emotional connections stronger. Many guests reported being surprised at how engaged they felt in their own company. It appears Lyall’s rule of “no phones, please” did as much to create a unique psychology as the nudity itself.
In retrospect, The Bunyadi stands as a bold chapter in London’s culinary history. It succeeded not by serving gourmet truffles or exotic ingredients, but by stripping away nearly everything else – clothing, gadgets, ego. What remained was a very human experience: interesting food, candlelight conversation, and the freedom to see the body as it is. For some guests that led to laughter and liberation; for others it provoked reflection on normal taboos. And for everyone, it offered a glimpse of how a dinner could feel when all the usual filters are removed. While its doors have shut, The Bunyadi’s influence lives on in the many places it inspired. In a world over-saturated with tech and artifice, Lyall’s experiment reminds us that sometimes the most fundamental experiences are the most memorable.
