At noon on the first of every month, a slightly frenzied ritual takes place among some of London’s more deep-pocketed foodies. It is the time when bookings open for the following four weeks at Evelyn’s Table. Punters time their midday calls with all the desperation of theatregoers trying to secure a ticket for Jerusalem, or hypochondriacs hoping to bag a GP appointment. The restaurant accommodates just 12 people at two sittings, Tuesday to Saturday evening. All slots – eight couples, two groups of four per night – are invariably gone by 12.05.
The experience rewards that fastest-finger competitiveness. Evelyn’s Table is in the former beer cellar of a storied Soho boozer, the Blue Posts, in a side street near Chinatown. At your appointed time – our sitting was at 6pm – you pass through a velvet curtain at the back of the old snug and descend a steep staircase into a narrow room with a steel-topped bar. Seated on high stools you are then within touching distance of a performance that seems part theatre, part magic show. Three intense young brothers, black-haired, bearded, all chefs, are already at dexterous work in a spotless and spotlit galley kitchen; on the night we took our seats the trio were noiselessly conjuring a dish of freshly opened, hand-dived scallops, tweezering on garnish, pipetting drops of tomato essence. Watching them perform, you are reminded a little of those families of circus acrobats, each outdoing the next in their tumbles. Here come the high-flying Selbys, Luke and Nathaniel and Theo! Roll up! Roll up! And be amazed!
