I’m not completely certain of the process to create a new branch of Boisdale. I imagine a high-level conference in one of the private rooms of the Canary Wharf mothership.
Suitable premises are secured, a magical bottle uncorked and a fine and ancient spirit decanted into a golden vessel, spiked with holes.
This, before too much has leaked away, is spun and shaken upstairs, downstairs and, almost certainly, in my lady’s chamber – like a priest dispersing the smoke of burning incense – amber droplets arcing through the air before soaking deep into the timbers of the walls they touch.
Nothing much happens for a while and then, like blood across the shirt of a newly wounded man, Boisdale red starts to spread.
The eye is drawn to its advancing front so that when one’s gaze springs back, the ornaments and frames that have sprung organically from the ether come as a surprise.
But the shock doesn’t persist as the branch beds in.
It’s already hard to believe recently opened Mayfair joint hasn’t always been tucked behind Oxford Street, a short stroll from Bond Street Tube (14 minutes from Canary Wharf).
Inhabiting a pile sunk down on its haunches, its various rooms all happily tickle the tummy of the word snug. It's a refuge.
Even the mezzanine deck beneath the skylight has something of the cubby hole about it and the galley space beneath inexplicably but strongly suggests a creaking galleon abroad on the high seas.
The food is every bit as cosy as the decor – I defy any diner not to be seduced by the fireside luxury of the braised shoulder of Highland venison (£22).
Combined with the cooling presence of a fine Sancerre and the insistent jazzy interpretations of recent pop hits by a lady with sparkly trainers and a large glass of red, you’d be hard pushed to find a joint as effortlessly cool in the capital.
Polish up on the slightly relaxed service and there will be no compelling reason to suffer the braying masses ransacking Primark.
Keep up to date with all our articles on Facebook