It’s 9.45 pm on a Wednesday and you’ve nabbed a table at London’s hippest East End hangout. You’re shamefully still wearing Sambas, with a pocketful of excuses ready, and your date for the night has just turned up.
Sure, they’re impressed by your ability to secure a table at such a notoriously hard-to-book destination — quarter to 10 is the new half seven, right? — but as you squint at the too-small font on the trend-heavy menu, half-listening to the tediously explained “concept”, the penny drops.
