If Mad Men’s Don Draper lived in noughties London, he would probably hang out at the Redhook.
For those of us brought up on a diet of 1950s Hollywood movies, the diner remains a powerful symbol of all things American. These shimmering stainless steel eating houses have made menu staples such as pancakes, French toast and grits, and bottomless cups of coffee as familiar to us as the traditional full English. By name at least.
I work in the City and I know we are a Capital in the midst of a Credit Crunch. They are two words beginning to haunt me in my sleep. But we all have to go out sometimes.
Like many bankers, Resting Banker Girl (RBG) has not set foot in the environs of London’s Liverpool Street for some time. Having had her faith shattered by several Data Base Operatives - also known as recruitment agencies - she prefers to keep as far away as possible from working bankers.
After several failed attempts, my husband and I boarded a train at London Bridge and got off at Wandsworth Common, and finally discovered what makes Chez Bruce one of London's 'best loved' restaurants.
Tucked away like a local's secret off of Chiswick High Road, Sam's occupies the interior of a reclaimed paper factory, a bright, modernist space containing both a bar and a brasserie with discrete tables for two as well as larger tables for bigger groups.
Ms Robinson does not understand the theory and purpose of corn chips. The idea of actually paying for a dish of corn carbs glued together with bright yellow cheese, and then eating it, is truly bizarre. Like wearing Crocs really.
Now I am certain. The Cinnamon Kitchen is one of my favourite restaurants in London.
Many Americans in London are carnivores. And many of them have been missing the institution that is the American steakhouse.