Isn’t life a leveller? Get too big for your boots and something comes along to iron out the ego. Last week I strode confidently into a restaurant, dropped the fake name on the booking, and was met with bewilderment. “But I have a confirmation,” I protested. A shake of the head; I couldn’t do. Turns out the place I had wandered past on the way — the one I had dismissed for looking out of date — was, in fact, where I was meant to be. Who gets it wrong with Google Maps? Me, apparently.
Not the most auspicious start to an evening, but then West Smithfield, where Origin is, has problems of its own. Is it knowing there’s a meat market full of blood and guts close by, or the constant presence of grunting 12-wheelers that’s the buzz kill? Still, no point denying Farringdon is all foodie again: there’s Bouchon Racine and Brutto down the road; Club Gascon and St Barts holding up the Michelin end. I still miss John King’s Bowling Bird. It felt like Peter Langan might come tumbling from out the back.
