Latest news with #Spitalfields
Daily Mail
2 days ago
- Entertainment
- Daily Mail
EXCLUSIVE Ex-wife of super rich equity boss was fighting her celebrity antiques dealer fiance for their £2.7m 18th century London home when she fell to her death from tower block
A mother who fell to her death from a city centre apartment block was embroiled in a bitter legal fight with her celebrity antiques dealer fiancé over their £2.7million London home. Rachel O'Hare, 49, was suing her ex-lover Owen Pacey, 60, for ownership of the five-storey Georgian mansion, in the trendy area of Spitalfields, before she died. According to court documents seen by the Mail, she claims she paid for the property and it was rightfully hers. Ms O'Hare alleged that Mr Pacey, a former squatter and self-made antique fireplace expert who counts Mick Jagger, Naomi Campbell, Kate Winslet and Orlando Bloom among his clients, had locked her out of the luxury home. She says he stopped her from collecting her belongings, refused to pay any bills and threatened to 'trash' the interior, which is packed with beautiful artwork, ornate Italian chandeliers and expensive designer furniture. The couple, who split acrimoniously in May last year, were due to go head to head over the property at a High Court trial in the next few months. But just four days after the most recent hearing in the case, at Leeds Combined Court, on June 26, Ms O'Hare was found dead. The exact details of what happened during the costs and case management hearing are unknown, but on June 30 her body was discovered on the pavement next to an apartment complex, in Manchester city centre, where she was living. Police said there are no suspicious circumstances and an inquest into her death is due to open next week. In a statement to the court, Ms O'Hare claimed Mr Pacey persuaded her to buy the elegant 18th Century house, in Wilkes Street, east London, in their joint names, in June 2021. She took out a loan and also used the proceeds of her divorce settlement from ex-husband, Steve O'Hare, 50, a Cheshire-based millionaire investment manager, with whom she had three teenage children, to pay for it. At that time, she and Mr Pacey had been together for less than a year following a whirlwind romance after meeting at his high-end fireplace showroom, Renaissance, which is based in a former Victorian pub, in Shoreditch, east London. Legal papers seen by MailOnline show that when the former couple bought the house together in 2021, they both signed an agreement specifying that if one of them were to die, ownership of the house would pass to the surviving partner The documents, drawn up by the solicitors who had handled the purchase of the historic Spitalfields house, had offered Mr Pacey and Ms O'Hare two options: they could either each own a specified proportion of the whole property or they could jointly own the whole with full ownership reverting to the surviving partner if the other predeceased them. Because they chase the latter option, the documents, signed on 1st August 2021, mean Owen Pacey became the sole owner of the £2.7 million 18th property in London following Rachel O'Hare's sudden death. In a newspaper interview while they were still a couple, Mr Pacey claimed it was love at first sight when they first met. 'She bought a table,' he said. 'That was it, as soon as I saw her.' Ms O'Hare said Mr Pacey, who was brought up in a council flat in gritty Bethnal Green and left school at 14 with no qualifications, promised to pay her his share of the four-bedroomed property within two years, once he had sold the £1.2million maisonette above the shop that he owned. 'The first defendant (Mr Pacey) said he had no money to contribute when the property was purchased but would be able to pay the claimant for his share in due course,' legal documents said. To give her peace of mind, Ms O'Hare said Mr Pacey also agreed to put half of his fireplace business, worth around £5million, in her name until he secured the monies. She also claimed they agreed to share the cost of renovating the house – they spent £14,000 on radiator valves alone – and, if he didn't pay his share or they split, it would revert back to her ownership. Mr Pacey gave her paperwork to sign, which persuaded her he was arranging the legal formalities, and also sent her reassuring texts, saying: 'You are on the title deed either of the flat or shop,' she said. Steve O'Hare (left) is co-managing partner of Equistone Partners Europe. Tributes have poured in for Rachel (right) who co-founded a charity for victims of domestic violence Shortly before Christmas, in 2022, the couple got engaged and Mr Pacey did 'gift' Ms O'Hare a 50 per cent share in the three-bedroomed maisonette. He moved into the newly renovated Wilkes Street property and told a journalist: 'I used to dream about living in Spitalfields. To actually live there now – I've never been so happy.' But Ms O'Hare remained in Mere, Cheshire, with her three school-age children and 10 months later, in October 2023, the couple's 'turbulent' relationship started hitting the rocks. Ms O'Hare discovered Mr Pacey had never formalised her 50 per cent stake in his business and they began arguing regularly over money. She claimed she had ended up paying the lion's share of the house refurbishment when he failed to pay builders' fees. She also alleged Mr Pacey was 'controlling' and instructed lawyers to begin legal action against him. 'The relationship between the claimant (Ms O'Hare) and the first defendant (Mr Pacey) was turbulent,' Ms O'Hare's claim said. 'Incidents led to temporary separations and there was a final and unequivocal parting in May 2024. 'The claimant contends that the cause of the breakdowns was the first defendant's controlling and abusive behaviour, which led to the involvement of the police.' In a defence statement also submitted to the court, Mr Pacey denied persuading Ms O'Hare, a respected fundraiser who set up a domestic abuse charity providing toiletries for women living in refuges, to buy the house in their joint names. He said she did so because they were 'in love' and there was no discussion or agreement about him eventually paying for half of the house or transferring over 50 per cent of his business. 'The parties (Ms O'Hare and Mr Pacey) were going to get married and there was just no discussion about who owned what,' his defence document said. Mr Pacey, who once described being made homeless and forced to live in a squat in King's Cross after having his first flat repossessed in the 1980s as the 'most traumatic thing I've ever been through,' also denied being controlling. He said they had only argued seriously twice - both times when Ms O'Hare had been drunk, in Rye, Kent, in the summer of 2023 and the night before they were departing to New York in May 2024. He also denied not allowing Ms O'Hare access to the property, now estimated to be worth in excess of £3.2m, or not paying bills or threatening to trash it. He claimed he paid £70,000 towards the house renovation and provided most of the furniture from his shop. He had also installed six Italian marble fireplaces, worth £350,000, and claimed Ms O'Hare had organised glossy magazine features to show off and promote the 2,700sq ft house, which they planned to rent out for use in £1,000-a-day photo shoots. According to his statement, dated February this year, he wanted to get the maisonette and the Georgian home valued, so that he could buy her out of both properties. When approached by the Mail, Mr Pacey refused to discuss his legal dispute with his former fiancee except to say: 'I worshipped the ground Rachel walked on.' He added that Ms O'Hare had been suffering from poor mental health in the weeks leading up to her death and had recently been treated in hospital. Mr Pacey said: 'I'm suffering with my own mental health. I don't want to be here without her.'
Forbes
02-07-2025
- Entertainment
- Forbes
Where To Eat In London This Month: July 2025
Galvin La Chapelle, London This is the one time of year I don't really think about eating. Not properly. As one of a bajillion-plus Londoners who've spent the last few days discussing little more than the many trials of this tortuous heatweave, I simply can't summon the appetite. It's, quite simply, too hot — and if that wasn't enough of a food-loving killer, much of London smells like bin juice by noon. I haven't stopped eating, of course. And a few things have certainly cut through: a cold pint followed by a spice bag; a tomato on toast that tasted better than any vegetable previously conquered; indulgent, champagne-fuelled tasting menus over a crisp white tablecloth, et al. The end of June may have made us all want to stay indoors and rot under wet flannels, but July might not be so bad. In fact, even if these temperatures do keep up, I'd hasten to say the restaurants below are worth a visit regardless. Here's where to eat and drink this month: Galvin La Chapelle, London 1. Galvin La Chapelle Where: Spitalfields Why now: Ex-Club Gascon's Arturo Granato is feeling creative in the kitchen — and it shows. What to expect: The white tablecloths remain, the chapel ceiling still stuns, but the food's had a sharp little refresh under head chef Arturo Granato. Think French classics done with a smirk: Brie on toast with pear chutney and Australian black truffle, duck à l'orange with smoked eel and braised fennel, and sauces broadly so good you'll start thinking of future occasions to return. Come for the tasting menu, leave dreaming of the fermented cherry sorbet. Vibe: Big date energy. Bring someone you'd share Champagne with.2. Molly Mc's Where: Southwark Why now: Because sometimes you need a Guinness, a prawn cracker, and a bit of Celine Dion at 1am. What to expect: A family-run Irish singing pub with a fresh new reno, Molly Mc's serves proper pints, late-night singalongs, and nostalgic bar snacks that hit far harder than they should. There's a classic spicebag, of course, as well as a number of Thai-inspired nibbles and mega plates when the drinks start to hit. No bookings needed (though advised if you want a sesh in one of its singing rooms). Just rock up, order a pint, and prepare to duet with a stranger. Vibe: Rowdy but charming. Like a Dublin night out with the nicest group you know.3. Pulse & Pickle Where: Walthamstow Why now: Because fermented food and Queer Beer makes the world go 'round. What to expect: A modest kitchen doing plant-based, migrant fusion cuisine — and doing it well. Pickling and fermentation are the throughline here, with seasonal small plates and generous platters that will delight anyone with a penchant for dip. The rotating menu of community-steeled salads, stews and beyond have brought something incredibly wholesome to an area flooded with chains, and regular events make for a wonderful space to spend lunchtimes and evenings alike. Light, clever, and just leftfield enough to feel like a proper find. Vibe: Thoughtful food in your cool friend's London 4. Hera Where: Stratford Why now: Because it's the closest you'll get to Greece this side of the Jubilee line. What to expect: Big energy, bigger portions, and a menu that hits every Greek food craving going — from creamy smoked tarama to feta saganaka that practically demand a spritz. The £60 [$82] set menu is outrageous value, featured a number of snacks for the table plus a starter, main and dessert of your choice, and the space is both large and gorgeous enough to host large parties and dinner dates alike. With live music-fuelled Greek nights, warm service and an outdoor terrace, it's a destination in its own right. Vibe: Party taverna meets proper dinner spot — souvlaki and serotonin abound.5. Gochu Gang Where: St James Street Why now: A Korean street‑food standout that's hit its stride. What to expect: A proper flavor bomb from an indie team, Gochu Gang is all about Korean fried chicken in impossibly bold, punchy sauces. Soy Garlic, Honey Butter and Salt & Pepper all slap, but it's the Sweet & Spicy coating that's earned it top spot among my favorite fried chicken haunts in London. And I'm something of an expert. Vibe: Sticky fingers, full heart. Eat inside if you're in the mood for a little K-pop.
Times
22-06-2025
- Entertainment
- Times
Bubala restaurant review: ‘The carrots nearly made me take a Covid test'
My wedding reception was held upstairs at the Ivy. Back then, there was only one Ivy: our favourite spot in London, where — in the pre-soft-play days, when our disposable income wasn't funnelled directly into Bluey Inc — we'd had our favourite, joyous, boozy dinners. It was the only possible venue. But now, with an Ivy on every high street, it's like announcing we got married at a Zizzi. And here, with slight regret, I present another cautionary tale of overexpansion. I love Bubala. It opened in Spitalfields in 2019, offering a vibrant take on Middle Eastern food that was delicious, quietly vegetarian and deeply hip — not that I'm in any position to judge hipness, but various beard-oil users have assured me that it was. Its firstborn arrived in Soho a few years later, and this sequel proved even better. It was The Godfather Part II, Thor: Ragnarok, Miley Cyrus. Bubala 3 is a 15-minute trek from King's Cross station, located in the sprawling techtropolis, presumably to vary the lunch options for Google and Facebook employees. The walk gave me plenty of time to hype up the food to my husband, J. By the end of my pitch, he was practically jogging there. We were welcomed in by a brilliant Kiwi manager, but it's not quite the restaurant I know — it's cool and airy rather than cosy, all concrete, exposed plaster and towering arched windows. It would be hard to say the place had much personality, as if it's ready to be turned into a Wagamama or Côte at a moment's notice. Inside Bubala REBECCA HOPE You have the option of a £33 per person mezze sharing menu or choosing, as we did, from the twenty or so à la carte dishes. We picked about half of them. The falafels were 10/10. Just the right amount of give on the outside and fluff on the inside, all served on a tahini so white, smooth and creamy it should have an SPF number. Bread and hummus were also spot-on. The laffa, a scorched flatbread threatening to become a naan, tore with a sublime stretchiness and was the perfect mode of transport to shovel in the glossy hummus, pimped up with nutty burnt butter. 'See?' I said to J. But, alas, man cannot live on chickpeas alone. Charred halloumi was squidgy and succulent, the antithesis of the squeaky vulcanised rubber found at every barbecue. In Soho, it comes topped with a phenomenal chamomile honey. Here it's been punished with half a jar of marmalade. Sickly and dissonant, it tasted as though a label had been misread — even Paddington would have scraped off the stuff. The spanakopita looked fantastic — a chimera of the Greek staple with Turkish borek pastry — but was polystyrene dry; the fist of sesame-miso chutney on the side delicious but ultimately unable to perform CPR on its neighbour. Leeks came doused in a Mexican-themed gratinated béchamel of jalapeños and sheep's cheese, with a tangy amba (mango pickle, to save you a google) reminding us we've got one foot in the Middle East. But the leeks were unforgivably tough. The thoughtfully provided utility knife wasn't up to the job — I think I'd have needed a power tool. I will forgive them for calling hash brown cubes 'latkes', but I can't forgive them for the potato being grey. The carrot main was so underflavoured it could have been a side for a Sunday roast — I almost took a Covid test. The button mushrooms on the pickle plate were overly soft, slightly redolent of a Travelodge breakfast. The basbousa dessert, a warm semolina cake with pineapple and coconut, had intricate flavours but was stone cold in the middle. Unforced error after unforced error that made me keep apologising to J. Carrots, feta and apricot Maybe these were all teething problems — the restaurant has only been open a month. ('Ask your server about our daily wine specials!' screamed a box on the menu. I asked a server, who asked another server, who told us there were no wine specials.) Maybe we caught them on an off day. Or maybe this is a moment for Bubala to take a beat, hopefully before branches start to take hold across the country like knotweed. Or Ivy. ★★★☆☆ 1 Cadence Court, Lewis Cubitt Park, London N1; Charlotte Ivers is away
Times
20-06-2025
- General
- Times
Léon Krier obituary: architect who designed Poundbury
Léon Krier once described himself as 'an architect, because I don't build'. As a minority voice in his profession who deplored the modernism that had dominated postwar architecture, Krier said he had made himself redundant. He assumed that he would remain a 'utopianist' for the rest of his life. Then he met Prince Charles (now the King). By the mid-Eighties the Prince of Wales was the British architecture profession's public enemy No 1 after a speech in 1984 in which he described a proposed extension of the National Gallery as a 'monstrous carbuncle on the face of a much-loved and elegant friend'. Charles and the London-based architectural theorist and academic Krier were destined to meet. They did so at an exhibition in 1986 to present Krier's masterplan to restore a Georgian quarter of London's Spitalfields that was under threat from modern development. Krier's elegant drawings acted like catnip on the royal visitor. 'He [Charles] said, 'Let's talk',' recalled the Luxembourg-born Krier, who wore slightly dandified Edwardian-style outfits topped off by his trademark silk scarves and had the air of a central European intellectual. 'And then he [Charles] said 'Would you like to be my consultant on architecture and particularly on urbanism?' and I said, 'Wow, my God. How could I refuse.' And then we'd meet at strange times and places. Like 3am with some Russian princess in Chelsea.' He remembered feeling touched by the 'desperate, even tragic ring' to Charles's voice when lamenting architecture. Charles had continued to blame architects for ruining postwar Britain, but in 1988 seized his chance to develop his own urban Arcadia on 400 acres of land, near the Dorset town of Dorchester, owned by his Duchy of Cornwall. The development would be planned in rigorous accordance with Krier's 'New Urbanist' principles of human scale. No building could be more than five storeys and would be configured in traditional street patterns. Houses and businesses would exist cheek by jowl. 'Timeless' materials of stone, brick and wood would be used. No one could be more than 15 minutes away from all the amenities they might need and even their place of work. Car use would be minimal. To reduce the urban sprawl he so deplored, he proposed reintroducing terraced housing that had become anathema to the modernists. It was a social experiment to disprove so much of the postwar urban redevelopment that replaced traditional street patterns and market squares with dual carriageways through town and city centres surrounded by residential tower blocks and the zoning of residential and commercial uses that created car-dependent suburban sprawl. 'Modernism is a totalitarian ideology which, like all dogmatism, is based on unprovable assumptions,' Krier said. About a year after starting on the project, Krier presented his masterplan for Poundbury, replete with Italianate piazzas linked by tree-lined streets. The plan was strong on details, from elaborate lampposts to wrought-iron fencing. Alarmed staff at the Duchy of Cornwall warned Charles that Krier's plans would be far too expensive. Krier countered that the rise in values would justify the cost in the long run. According to Clive Aslet's recent book King Charles III: 40 years of Architecture, the duchy appointed the surveyors Drivers Jonas to 'rein Krier in'. Krier had walked away from many other projects for less. 'He was gentle but uncompromising in everything he did, preferring to withdraw than be drawn into political skirmishes, inhuman bureaucracy or pollute his designs,' said his wife Irene. Matters came to a head at the prince's home, Highgrove, in Gloucestershire, when Krier, Christopher Jonas and Charles looked at the plans laid out on the large dining table. Jonas said: 'Sir, we will of course take on board what Mr Krier says.' The prince banged his fist on the table and replied: 'Christopher, you are not going to take on board what Leo says, you are going to do what he tells you.'Krier recalled: 'From then on it was open war. He called me from everywhere saying, 'You can't do this.' And I'd say, 'You have to do it. The prince wants it and he is The Boss.'' In June 1989 a marquee was erected at Poundbury Farm and the public were invited to view Krier's masterplan. It was an exercise in community architecture run by Charles's friend, the architect John Thompson. Sometimes the prince himself would arrive by helicopter and drop in on meetings unannounced. The marquee was packed and local people were mostly won round, although many thought that the buildings were too classical. An unabashed classicist by personal taste, Krier revised his plans with vernacular architecture more in keeping with the surrounding area. Planning permission for phase one was achieved in 1991. Britain was in the midst of a property crash, which many smugly predicted would scupper Poundbury — especially as Krier had ignored the advice of property experts and sited affordable housing alongside the more expensive private properties. As the buildings started to rise up in 1993, the profession went to war on Poundbury. It was sneeringly described as a 'Toy Town' pastiche of neoclassicism with its portentous porticos and public squares. A critic in this newspaper once said: 'If Hallmark were to film a Christmas movie in Britain, Poundbury would be an ideal setting.' Yet over the years the community has continued to thrive. There are now some 4,500 people living there, with 185 businesses sustaining 2,300 jobs. Poundbury has been visited by architects, planners and developers from all over the world. The estate agent Savills reported that Poundbury homes are on average worth 25 per cent more than other homes on the local market. Krier himself lived for many years in a townhouse in Belsize Park, north London, full of 19th-century Biedermeier furniture. To his critics in the profession Krier said: 'Look at where architects live. They live in old traditional houses just as I do. Why do they impose these inhuman structures on others?' For much of Krier's professional life this view was countercultural, but when the tide turned he came to be known as the 'godfather of New Urbanism'. Léon Ernest Krier was born in Luxembourg in 1946 to Jean Pierre Jacques Krier, a tailor who specialised in ecclesiastical robes and supplied most of the bishops in the country. His mother was Emma Marguerite (née Lanser). He grew up in a small, handsome town that he later described as a 'perfect embodiment of New Urbanism' and attended the Lycée Classique in the baroque monastery of L'Abbaye d'Echternach. He wanted to be a pianist, but decided to study architecture to follow in the footsteps of his elder brother Robert, whom he hero-worshipped. As a teenager he was a confirmed modernist and dreamt of 'blasting the cities I saw around me and building skyscrapers'. Then he realised that he was 'in love with the cities of Italy'. 'I tried hard to reconcile them with the theories of Le Corbusier. It was impossible.' He won a place to study architecture at the University of Stuttgart, but found his tutors impossible to talk to. The situation worsened when he researched the work of Albert Speer, the architect of the Third Reich, and his teachers described Krier's scholarship as 'fascist'. He left without graduating and moved to London, where he worked in the office of the modernist architect James Stirling. Four years working for 'big Jim' cured him of any remaining proclivities towards modernism. After leaving Stirling's office he developed masterplans for Kingston upon Hull, Rome, Luxembourg, West Berlin, Bremen, Stockholm, Munich and Washington, none of which were taken forward. He made his living teaching at the Architectural Association and the Royal College of Art, where he made his reputation as a lone architectural theorist crying in the wilderness. While working on Poundbury in the Nineties, he also masterplanned the Cité Judiciaire in his native Luxembourg. In recent years he worked on projects in Guatemala City and a new town near San Miguel de Allende in Mexico. In 2017 it emerged that he was working on a waterside masterplan to redevelop Fawley power station on the Solent, near Southampton, into 1,500 homes on a 300-acre site. The £2.3 billion project became known in the press as 'Venice in Britain', but, without the royal protection he had enjoyed at Poundbury, the scheme was largely cancelled last year after the developers said it was no longer viable. Krier was divorced from his first wife Rita Wolf, a painter. He is survived by his second wife Irene. Defending his New Urbanist approach to placemaking, Krier said: 'Traditional architecture and urbanism is not an ideology, religion, or transcendental system. It cannot save lost souls or give meaning to empty lives. It is a body of knowledge and know-how allowing us to build practically, aesthetically, socially and economically satisfying cities and structures. Such structures do not ensure happiness but they certainly facilitate the pursuit of happiness for a large majority of people.' Poundbury is due to be completed in 2028, 35 years after it broke ground, at which point there will be homes for 6,000 people. When he started work on the project Krier was a 43-year-old with what a profile in The Guardian described as 'a mad scientist mop of black hair'. By the time of his death the hair was snowy white but in the same unruly mop and he was proud to be the only member of the original team still involved in the project, along with the King. Léon Krier CVO, architectural theorist and urban planner, was born on April 7, 1946. He died of colon cancer on June 17, 2025, aged 79
The Guardian
08-06-2025
- Entertainment
- The Guardian
Osteria Angelina, London E1: ‘There's a lot to adore' – restaurant review
One undeniable fact about Angelina, which has just opened a second site in Spitalfields, east London, is that in the now mini-group's relatively short existence, they've singlehandedly made the phrase 'Italian-Japanese restaurant' seem a much more normal thing to say. Patently, Angelina Mark 1 over in Dalston was not the first time in culinary history that Milan met Tokyo over the stoves, that miso met pasta, that truffle met sushi, and so on; hungry people have always travelled, merged cuisines and messed about with flavours. Still, the original Angelina's kaiseki-style tasting menu, where chawanmushi (savoury egg custard) is served with datterini tomatoes, and pastas are topped with furikake, was clearly interesting enough to attract the attention of Michelin. Its new sister, Osteria Angelina, is darkly chic, spacious (handy for group dining) and tucked away down a side road on the Norton Folgate development close to Shoreditch overground station (fans of the Sri Lankan restaurant Kolomba on Kingly Street near Oxford Circus will find a second outpost, Kolomba East, in the same area, and Noisy Oyster, from the people behind Firebird, will soon be joining them). To give credit where its due, Norton Folgate is a refreshingly beautiful restoration project, where spruced-up Edwardian, Georgian and Victorian buildings mix with new-builds to create a little slice of sedate elegance away from the bottomless brunch, Box Park hellscape that is modern Shoreditch. Escape the main drag, hop into Osteria Angelina, sit up at the marble bar in front of the open kitchen and order snacks of pizza nera topped with moromi, a rich fermented soy paste, or a salad of zucchini and shiso leaves with ricotta. From the number of people eating here just two weeks after it opened, this cultural clash clearly has its fans. What Osteria Angelina's Japanese customers, with their relatively orderly rules of social conduct and deference, make of the place's excessively animated Italian servers, however, is one for the anthropology books. All this, I guess, is smoothed over by the likes of the nori-topped focaccia and the small, sweet mini-loaf of Hokkaido milk bread, the very memory of which has me salivating; that's served with a kumquat reduction – OK, let's call it jam – and a puddle of burnt honey butter. After the pane and insalate sections, the menu moves on to fritti and crudo. We ordered a plate of hot-as-hell tempura'd courgette flowers stuffed generously with miso ricotta. Crudo is so often a disappointment, but here the bream is cured in kombu and doused in yet more burnt butter, making it rather wickedly appealing. Hamachi sashimi was also very good, and smothered in truffled soy and furikake. Dinner here could easily be made up purely of a collection of these small plates and some bread to mop up the exquisite oils, but that would mean missing out on the fresh agnolotti and tortellini. The pasta offering changes frequently, but expect the likes of immensely comforting fazzoletti with a rich duck ragu and lotus, crab and sausage-filled agnolotti and whelk risotto with burnt soy butter. Larger meaty and fishy things, meanwhile, are grilled in front of you on binchō-tan coals behind the bar. Tongue with wasabi, anyone? Or, more simply, some Brixham skate wing or a Blythburgh pork chop? Angus steak comes rare, drenched in miso butter, alongside our side order of NamaYasai greens and an extra portion of tsukemono pickles. There's a lot to adore about all of this cooking; it's generous, oily, saucy and certainly not to be eaten every day. Every plate we tried swam in some variation on spiced, seasoned, miso-flecked oil that would have been a terrible waste to consign to the dishwasher. How about some more bread and the remnants of that house ponzu? Wait, they're taking away the delicious white balsamic dressing that came with the tempura agretti? No, stop! In fact, the only thing that left me slightly cold, other than the damned uncomfortable chairs with backrests so far back that you're almost lying down, was the brulee'd black sesame cheesecake with milk ice-cream, which, though visually interesting – dark, gloomy, stodgy – had about it the air of something that had been mass-produced, in much the same way as a Pizza Express cheesecake probably wasn't made by chef's nonna that morning, but rather came out of a packet from the freezer. Next time – and there will be a next time – I'll go for the genmaicha purin and kinako green tea rice pudding. Osteria Angelina shouldn't work, but it absolutely does. It will also offend purists everywhere, but being upset has never been so delicious. Osteria Angelina 1 Nicholls & Clarke Yard (off Blossom Street), London E1, 020-4626 6930. Open lunch Tues-Sun, 12.15-2.30pm (noon-3pm Sat & Sun); dinner 5.15-10.30pm (9.30pm Tues, Weds & Sun). From about £50 a head à la carte, plus drinks and service
