A big week for Catholics, this one. I was thinking of priests as I sauntered into Cinco, a basement enclave below Corrochio’s, the Mexican restaurant on Stoke Newington Road.
After a dainty example of a Mater Dolorosa, the Virgin Mary conjuring Catholicism in its gentlest and most sorrowful form, a jaunty staircase from the street brings a dim-lit room full candles, with wooden ducks on walls that look old, a fireplace in the centre of the room and a bar on the left manned by a Mexican bartender. Various artefacts hang from the ceiling. In the corner, a lamp pooling an orange glow. About me, the promise of mezcal, tequila.
