Silverleaf isn’t really geared up towards spontaneity. Or impulsivity, come to think of it. For one thing, there’s a dress code, something increasingly rare in London, especially in more modern establishments. “Smart slash elegant” is the order of the day.
Tricky for me, then, a man who would happily wear a tracksuit daily until the weather dictates the need for football shorts. And yet here I am in Silverleaf on a midweek evening, gazing at the illuminated bar, stocked to the hilt — doubly so thanks to a cleverly positioned mirror — feeling mightily underdressed. But I had been welcomed up despite being the most lost of lambs.
