‘I’ve been doing this gig for a while, and very little surprises me, but pork belly cooked in halibut juice?’
I first became aware of Ink when photographs of some extraordinary looking food found their way into my social media feeds. So extraordinary that I dismissed it with an airy, “It’ll never last.”
Yet here Ink still is, in a location so odd it requires serious orienteering. It’s at the base of an undulating cliff-face of new-build flats in Mile End, across a canal bridge, through the Millennium Park. It’s the least likely location for a restaurant of ambition since Nuno Mendes set up his Bacchus somewhere none of us had heard of called Hoxton.
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