“Any problems getting in just let me know.” It’s a phrase I haven’t heard since my days of meeting promoters for nights out in Mayfair clubs, where the lines were long and the social scene swirling. It’s much the same level of anticipation here today in a queue in Notting Hill. Except, this time the point of entry is different. This time – we’re here for yoghurt.
Frozen yoghurt – or “fro-yo” as you’d be remiss not to call it – is nothing new. In the mid-2000s the tart desert was everywhere: in the hands of Paris Hilton in paparazzi photos taken outside Los Angeles’ Pinkberry, toted by 15-year-old Miley Cyrus at Studio City’s YogurTree, and enjoyed by thousands of Londoners, who revelled in the uber British fro-yo bar’s signature catch phrase: “fancy a SNOG?”. Usually, the answer was yes.
Now, in the wave of Y2K nostalgia that’s seen the return of everything from boot cut jeans to Juicy Couture tracksuits, fro-yo has been resurrected too, with one Aussie brand, Yo-chi, launching a 2,000sqft, two floor, 120 seat parlour, complete with a Nutella tap, in west London. So far, it’s lured punters from as far as Bristol, Manchester and Ireland.
The brand’s UK partner, Stral Zarkovic, tells me he’s received non-stop DMs from customers ahead of their journey to find out the length of the queue. Thankfully for them, TikTok users have this question covered, with one self-dubbed “queue correspondent”, Aimee Steinberg, posting frequent status updates. On opening day, the line reached two hours.
When I get my Ugg boots on the ground to find out what all the fuss is about, the yoghurt (I go for their classic tart flavour, with buenazzo hazelnut spread, strawberries, cookie dough and Nutella) is undeniably delicious. But that’s, obviously, not enough for people to wait up to 120 minutes of their life to try it with no previous connection to the brand.
Yo-chi’s popularity has coincided with the mass exodus of British people to Australia, where the brand launched in 2012. Down under, a stop at the fro-yo shop is part of routine and, as such, one of the sights my friends showed me when I visited Bondi in 2024. Like me, many of the girls in the queue have been waiting for a UK Yo-Chi ever since.
The way the news of the Notting Hill store’s launch was announced reflected this: on the uber popular The Girls Bathroom podcast, where hosts and best friends Sophia Tuxford and Cinzia Baylis-Zullo gushed about the fro-yo, sans paid endorsement, which – along with hundreds of thousands of TikTok videos – made swarms of people want to try it, too.
But Yo-chi aside, people are still going nuts for fro-yo. Ahead of the Notting Hill pandemonium, queues lined the pavements for Myka – allegedly Justin Bieber’s favourite tart treat location – in London and New York. Mast, Fresco, Yolé, Go Greek and SNOG garner attention for up to around £10 for a large bowl with three toppings.
Initially, I felt concerned about the diet culture of it all. Last summer, Ellen Cushing posited in The Atlantic that stingy wraps had once again soared in popularity over delicious sandwiches due to the return of skinny as chic, which saw The Kardashians remove their BBLs and hip bones just out over jeans. At first glance, so too fro-yo seems in contrast to the indulgence of ice cream, as Ozempic minimises the nation’s appetite and weight-shaming booms.
Looking at the nutella tap, I think again. While you could have a relatively low calorie fro-yo with plain tart yoghurt, some coulis and fruit, most of the girls (and it is predominantly female teens and twenty-somethings) are loading their bowl with brownie pieces, biscoff spread, oreos and creamy pistachio spread with glee. Personally, I’m glad eating is cool.
Instead, fro-yo plays into wellness culture in another way. At every Yo-Chi store, there’s gentle electronic music playing and a disco ball floating overhead. With opening hours from 10am to 11pm, friends can come here for everything from breakfast, a mid-afternoon pick me up, dessert after dinner – or instead of a bar if you don’t want to drink, which increasing numbers of young people do not. In Australia, it’s a common date spot.
“Yochi is more than just frozen yoghurt – it has a strong social and community element that feels relevant to the way people are socialising now: casual, affordable and not centred around alcohol,” says Zarkovic of the welcoming third space they’ve tried to create. “We’re about experience and connection,” he adds of the easy hangout atmosphere.
In the queue, I meet two university friends, one from Cambridge, and one from Kent, who’ve come to London to spend time together during the summer back at their parent’s houses before term time starts again in September. Ten years ago, they might have been at bottomless brunch, or any happy hour within zones one to three.
“No, we wanted to do this as part of our London day out,” grins 20-year-old Morgan eagerly, despite the snaking line. “It’s been a few days so we’d been hoping the queue would have died down. But it’ll be worth it.” What are they going to get? “Lots,” comes the swift reply. “We’re so hungry.”
A cynic might say the fervent interest in fro-yo is nothing more than social media-induced frenzy. An optimist would say it is an example of our need for wholesome social activities. I ask one cross-continent employee’s verdict on whether she thinks the hype will die down in the days or weeks after the store’s launch. “I mean, we opened our first store in Singapore over a year ago,” she replies. “And there are still lines out the door today.”
