In my view, Oma, the Greek word for “raw”, is the one to go for. Don’t get me wrong. Agora (which, fittingly, means “market”) on a Friday night is almost illegally fun; an irrepressible, clubby whirl of bubbled flatbreads, green chilli margaritas and the young and attractive spilling out from communal tables onto the street. It was just when I dug into the food offering — serviceable pork skewers, a spiced riff on a ham and pineapple pizza better in theory than execution — that things felt a little lacking and directionless.