Madeleine and I took the kids along for a Saturday lunch, mostly motivated by a menu featuring an abundance of things that they will actually eat (can children overdose on pizza? Probably best not to tell me if so). We did not have a booking and so we were led all the way through a labyrinth of thronged crowds into a frigid little exposed brick annexe beside the accessible toilets. “Siberia” doesn’t quite capture its thwarted coldness; my abiding early image is of the 10-year-old solemnly setting down his Pokémon cards to put his coat back on. Still, the wait staff, all garbed in red corduroy overshirts, had a charm that seeped through into the first dishes. Rosemary garlic bread yielded warm, crackled triangles of subtly fragrant dough, prompting ravenous grabbing and big, appreciative grins. Mozzarella sticks, trickled with honey and set in a smear of ‘nduja, had a balance of sweetness, heat and cheese-pulling elasticity that was downright undeniable.