Dinner tonight at St Alban. It has a carpet so it hums. It is like a sanctuary. Not the workshop clatter of The Wolseley, a cathedral where cars once parked for sale. One can't imagine cars parked in St Alban on carpets the colour of vestments. Mitchel works the service with Chris. It's their house party, which is nice. There are no windows. One can imagine the Ivy congregation enjoying this. In lieu of The Ivy's stained glass, ensuring opacity is complicit with privacy, are wall panels covered in scribbly wobbly drawings of pepper mills and other kitchen knick-knacks.
Like graffiti, the origin of the menu is Italian.
And, like the star-ship Enterprise, glass doors swish open as you approach.
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