Best restaurants near Corniche Beach in Abu Dhabi

Abu Dhabi’s Corniche stretches far beyond postcard perfection. It hums with rhythm—waves breaking softly, footsteps tracing the promenade, and somewhere, the clink of cutlery against porcelain. As day folds into evening, the air begins to change. Lanterns flicker to life. Tables fill slowly. Conversations stretch over second courses. Around here, dining isn’t just about eating—it becomes a ritual, a moment, sometimes even a memory.

While some seek out well-known names, others discover quiet corners that surprise with every bite. Locals return for the flavors they trust; travelers pause, lured in by scent and setting. The shoreline hides more than just sea and sand. It cradles stories told in spices, in heat, in hush. For those searching beyond the surface, these are the best restaurants near Corniche Beach in Abu Dhabi—each waiting, quietly, to be found.

CATCH AT ST. REGIS

Catch at St. Regis doesn’t announce itself. It settles into the Corniche like it belongs there—subtle, confident, a little bit coastal, a little bit Tokyo. The menu leans heavily into seafood, but avoids labels. Blowtorches hum across sushi rolls while someone nearby orders oysters with citrus foam. The open kitchen glows behind smoked glass. It’s hard to know where the theatre ends and the food begins. The crowd is mixed: diplomats, influencers, and couples tangled in moonlight.

And yet, nothing feels forced. You might share a miso-glazed black cod while jazz pulses low through the speakers. Or sip something dry while watching waves curl against the Nation Riviera Beach Club. The air smells like grilled prawns and salt. The world outside seems quieter here, as if time decided to slow for a while. Even the staff seem to speak in softer tones.

​AZURA PANORAMIC LOUNGE

Azura Panoramic Lounge is three levels of sky, sea, and something in between. You don’t just sit—you perch, hover, drift. Somewhere near the edge, a flame flickers beside a glass of something red and slow. Mediterranean flavors pass like suggestions: roasted seabass, a pizza that dares to be delicate, a fig tart that vanishes too soon.

Sometimes, a violinist plays as the sun folds itself into the Gulf. Other nights, it’s silence that seduces. There are cabanas hidden in corners, and the breeze does most of the talking. People come for sunset, stay for conversations that stretch across courses. It’s not dinner—it’s altitude, poured neat.

​VILLA TOSCANA

There’s no sign that says “authentic.” Just the soft creak of wood, the warm flicker of Tuscan light, and somewhere in the background—Puccini, maybe. Villa Toscana doesn’t try to impress with invention; it seduces with memory. Pappardelle arrives tangled with ragù so rich it whispers old stories. A waiter leans in with a bottle you weren’t sure you needed until now.

The room glows like an Italian summer from long ago, even when it’s raining outside. Truffle oil hangs in the air like a secret. You order tiramisu and forget to share it. Not everything is rustic—sometimes the elegance cuts sharper than expected. But always, it lingers.

WEST BAY LOUNGE

There’s a softness to West Bay that doesn’t quite explain itself. Somewhere between the lanterns, palm shadows, and low-set sofas, time gets distracted. A DJ spins something smooth, and a grilled sea bass glides past without fanfare. You’re not sure if you’re at a lounge, a restaurant, or just a very good idea someone had under a full moon.

The menu resists categorization. Mediterranean? Maybe. Pan-Asian? Sometimes. It doesn’t matter. What matters is the breeze, the flicker of light against salt-rimmed glasses, the quiet conversations that trail into laughter. The city glows behind you. Ahead, just ocean and calm.

TOKI

No neon signs. Just the sound of quiet, and that familiar wooden scent when the doors slide open. Toki is for those who know—those who don’t need fusion or spectacle. The chefs work behind pale counters, moving with deliberate grace. A sliver of toro. The faint hiss of tempura dropped in oil. Everything is understated, until it isn’t. Even a simple miso soup seems to hold something back, like a memory that only surfaces halfway through the meal.

You’ll likely stay too long over a second cup of sake. Not because you’re hungry—because you’re somewhere else. Some evenings, laughter carries from one booth to the next. Other times, it’s silence that binds the room. There are no fireworks here. Only rhythm, and reverence.

SILK & SPICE THAI RESTAURANT AND BAR

You don’t walk into Silk & Spice. You step through. Into dim lantern light, into the scent of kaffir lime, into something slower. The servers glide, not walk. Even the way water is poured feels intentional. Somewhere, basil crackles in a hot wok; somewhere else, a couple whispers over duck curry with jasmine rice. Every table is a small theater of contrasts—sour, sweet, silence, spice. The walls hum with gold leaf and wood carvings, but it’s not ornate. It’s alive.

The menu doesn’t shout. It murmurs—try the tom yum, try the sea bass with tamarind, try to guess the ingredients. You won’t. The bar glows amber in the corner. If you sit long enough, someone might smile from another table. Maybe. Or maybe not.

TAON KOREAN RESTAURANT

There’s no fusion here. No compromises either. Taon is fire and stone and ritual. The grill sits in the center, glowing with quiet confidence. Tongs click. Meats sear. Laughter flares as someone flips a slice too soon. But it’s not just barbecue—there’s bibimbap in stone bowls, bubbling stews, cold noodles coiled like silk. Kimchi arrives sharp and unapologetic.

The staff know their timing: when to speak, when to let you be. A moment arrives mid-meal, usually unnoticed, when the table falls quiet—not from etiquette, but awe. The architecture leans modern, but somewhere behind the glass, tradition is whispering. You’ll leave full, but not just in the usual way. This is memory food. You’ll remember the sound of the sizzle before you remember the taste.