Last Monday, I had lunch at the Yellow Bittern, the much-written about restaurant near King’s Cross in London where bookings may only be secured by telephone, and payment made only by a small wad of notes.
Yes, I know its analogue ethos has induced a certain crossness in some, but I loved everything about it, from the big Le Creuset pans in its galley kitchen to the flaky pastry on the beef pie we shared. Our (perfect) rice pudding came, courtesy of the restaurant’s cook, Hugh Corcoran, with a tiny glass of mirabelle – a crystal clear shot of retro naughtiness that I just about dealt with by dashing out to visit the cashpoint in the freezing cold without putting on my coat first.
