The Guardian

July 16, 2018

The bare brick walls with little by way of decoration bar vast glass bottles of preserved fruit; the single vintage clock, the wooden warehouse beams. Senior, magnificently Gallic chaps in checked shirts and aprons greet you like old pals when you arrive and remember your coat when you leave. The candlelit romance of the place is intensified by its location, a hidden, cobbled arched mews off Charterhouse Square. It’s all enough to turn the most leathery cynic misty-eyed.