At the scrag end of Shoreditch, that part which is frequently advertised to tourists as ‘close to the remnants of the Roman road’, there’s a graffiti-doused Overground station which either leads to Hackney, or to Manteca. And good luck navigating the swathes of £4 flat white snobs and ethical start-up City boys on your walk of shame back to Liverpool Street. We booked Manteca as we knew it was previously lauded at length, not least by Jay Rayner who had praised it for its verve and...

Old Soho is no more, or it’s only ever found in traces. Just behind Pret (and next to Pret), you might get a strange sense of déjà-vu...

Just when you think Soho could not come up with a more unlikely juxtaposition of venues, people, and flavours (Russian-American-French anything was always going to be a contentious ménage à trois), you will come across Bob Bob Ricard on Upper James Street. Ever so often, I find my centre of gravity off-kilter, as the invisible force drags me back to this place. In the spirit of this rule of three, I bring two Northern pals here for New Year’s Eve. So we scurry off to the Central Line,...