I’ve been a fan of the Three Sheets gang ever since a quiet drink at the Dalston original turned into a night spent crashing nearby parties. We were chucked out of one when the candles and cake arrived: belting out “Happy Birthday dear… stranger” ended up being rather a giveaway. “You’re out of line,” I remember a man saying. “But not out of tune,” my pal replied, giggling. Pavement has never been my favourite flavour.
Years ago, now. It was all very Dalston, so I didn’t expect the Venning brothers to bring their E8 thing to W1. And to be fair, they barely have: a once grungy Manette Street is now glossy, and it’s also on the wrong side of the Pillars of Hercules. This is Soho-lite; Soho without the E numbers. The crowd reflects it; they too are glossy, in that Instagram-filter-come-to-life way. You sense they won’t end up in Trisha’s or that place next to Bar Italia that gives me the jitters.
