I see dead people. Ballroom-dancing phantasms – the waltzing dead – whirl within a large gold-framed mirror behind a moodily-lit bar area where servers open square boxes with a flourish to reveal spirits of the alcoholic variety.
Eyes of painted portraits move silently, surveying a spooky sanctum dominated by an extravagant aquarium filled with skeletal fish and seahorses swimming above tiny gravestones. “Here lies Ol’ Bobby – served with wasabi”, eulogises one algae-encrusted memorial.
