B was clutching his iphone with the navigation switched on (‘don’t turn it off’, I yelped) as we alighted the bus and crossed over the road in the dusky Dalston night. We passed a group of hood-clad guys loitering outside a cab office – no doubt sniggering at the sight of yet another pair of middle-class, East End newbies looking terrified. Turning up a dark passageway we spotted a fairy- lit entrance, pushed open the peeling blue door - and walked straight into a fabric-swathed cave complete with ‘80s soundtrack and glitter balls, filled with tables and staring faces. It was a bit like walking into a house party where you turn up spannered, don’t know anyone’s name, where the kitchen is, you’ve forgotten to buy any booze and you don’t even know who the host is. However the panic didn’t last long (nor did the other guests’ interest) as we wandered through the rickety tables to have a closer look at the slightly spooky vintage shop décor. Once spotted and greeted, we were led to a tiny table in the corner covered in a patchwork quilt, a vase of flowers and – the beauty of an unlicensed restaurant – an ashtray. Seconds later we were joined by another guest – a disdainful, fashionably skinny cat mincing its way through the sawn off stools made out of armchairs. This ‘sinister cute’ theme was echoed throughout the décor (the house is owned by set designer Tony Hornecker) – for example in the dolls and taxidermy sitting side by side, staring down at the diners.
The set menu was simple but gutsy and served in generous portions on mismatched vintage plates (the crockery magpie in me got itchy fingers): a simply dressed tomato and feta salad with pita bread to start; hunks of roast beef with a hearty dose of horseradish sauce, served with mustardy potatoes and cabbage and apple crumble and filter coffee to finish. The flyer for the night had specified the £30 per head cover charge included a half bottle of wine (or a very civilised G&T to start), but a full bottle was craftily placed on our table and it seemed rude not to drink it. Or to refuse a second from our oddly attractive drag queen waitress who was very impressed with B’s Lomo. He also treated us to a couple of ‘80s-stubbletastic, breathy lip-synching solos, resplendent in glitter and an array of wigs. At the end of his last number he gave each diner a mint-scented smacker on the lips (‘that was the first time I’ve ever had a kiss from a man’, said B. ‘Was yours open-mouthed?’)
We left at around midnight in search of further Halloween festivities so we didn’t hang out in one of the various rooms hidden away up in the rafters, with Post-it festooned cardboard boxes, unsettling doll-sized furniture and an outdoor roof areas full of smokers (smoking ban habits die hard), and followed the cat out into the night leaving the mischief- and cigarette-scented den behind us.
