“Any problems getting in just let me know.” It’s a phrase I haven’t heard since my days of meeting promoters for nights out in Mayfair clubs, where the lines were long and the social scene swirling. It’s much the same level of anticipation here today in a queue in Notting Hill. Except, this time the point of entry is different. This time – we’re here for yoghurt.
Frozen yoghurt – or “fro-yo” as you’d be remiss not to call it – is nothing new. In the mid-2000s the tart desert was everywhere: in the hands of Paris Hilton in paparazzi photos taken outside Los Angeles’ Pinkberry, toted by 15-year-old Miley Cyrus at Studio City’s YogurTree, and enjoyed by thousands of Londoners, who revelled in the uber British fro-yo bar’s signature catch phrase: “fancy a SNOG?”. Usually, the answer was yes.
