The difference between the new Chishuru and the old can probably be summarised as a tale of two toilet journeys. Those who needed the loo at the original Brixton premises had to walk out of its door, stroll for a good few minutes beyond the whiff of a fishmongers, and then push on through into the kind of vigorously bleached public facilities where there’s normally graffiti advertising the sexual services of “Big Jeff”. These days, things are simpler and slicker.
If nature calls at the swish, recently opened Fitzrovia iteration of Adejoké Bakare’s celebrated West African restaurant, then all a diner needs to do is waft to the downstairs bathrooms —sparkling clean, fresh-scented and with Hausa folk music drifting from discreet speakers — of a quietly glamorous, carefully curated 50-cover space.
