‘The first restaurant my husband took me to was Moro, and thus his fate was sealed’
I kept meaning to go back to Moro. I meant to go back last year, when the former editor of the Daily Telegraph wound up peeling artichokes in its kitchen. I planned to return when the editor of these pages and I talked about doing the odd review celebrating old-timers, rather than always chasing the new. And I absolutely intended a wedding anniversary visit, because it was the first restaurant the man who became my husband took me to, a move that pretty much sealed his fate.
But I never did. And then, this week, I set out to review a restaurant that turns out to be so much less interesting than it ought to be – and no, I’m not telling (in any case, it’s in a location that you, a Guardian reader, will never go to) – that I think, finally: take me to Moro.
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