Well-presented, old-fashioned, but overpriced pub grub for the casually opulent
Restaurant land is in a tangential state. Dozens of new openings have been cancelled, heavily delayed, hazily scheduled or, by contrast, brassily rolled out in the most opulent manner ever.
If post-Brexit food-shortage rumours become true, at least I, as “an expert”, know of some incredible new multimillion-pound pleasure palaces, such as, say, Vivi, where I can perch under a Vibeke Fonnesberg Schmidt plexiglass chandelier at a metallic bronze, curvilinear bar and survey the hungry rioters outside. “Let them eat caviar vol-au-vents,” I will decree as the masses enter the building, George Romero zombie-style, making a complete mess of the sublime, art-deco marble flooring and the salmon-pink, leather horseshoe booths, before they remove my entrails.
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