“I'm surprised they bothered really”, I confided to my partner, “putting a restaurant for our class of people here”, as we entered the bijou Victorian attic, a room artfully accessorised to look like a salon of the French Renaissance (or something, we don't really know but we love feeling like we're in an exclusive clique where only people like us know to what we refer. Apparently it used to be a cupboard).

I surmised the intended ambience is ultimately that of what some might call Fin de Siecle Neoclassique, but... “does it pass the acid test of our refined sensibilities” my English Rose was want to enquire. Well, we shall see.

Ensconced at a window table we were able to observe omnibuses and passing ethnics in the street below, certainly a diverting pre-prandial human zoo I mused, while quaffing my somewhat recidivist champagne. Our waitress was an apotheosis of sneered disdain as she took our order. Her indulgence of our guilt a titilating frisson. The menu? Extensive, if a little derelict – a nod to the inner city locale mayhap?

We alighted on an eighteen course repast – a snip at £3095 (excluding fawning, which customers are required by the owners to do themselves). Our starters were a liver and lager consommé (a tad aggressive) and a pate of lemur heart (authentically Madasgascan but rather perfunctory, Mrs Posh was quite upset). For main, I had guinea-pig tongue in a rhubarb hollandaise sauce (exotic, erotic, sumptuous), and my partner in culinary and topographical posturing optioned for the warm mousseline of mallard imprisoned in a marzipan sarcophagus and drizzled in sputum, pavement-matured in the environs. (They don't tell everyone about this for fear of overwhelming demand, it is organically harvested). She says it didn't deliver in the flavour department. “How was it in the haberdashery department darling”, I quipped. I am so funny and erudite.

To follow; a simple peasant sausage each (an homage to the native population), garnished with a bounteous arabesque of crème fraîche and Pickled Onion Monster Munch. Impressive, especially when one is distracted by attempting to appear familiar with the vacuous etiquette of the aspirant classes, isn't one. The other sixteen dishes, suffice to say they were insouciant, adequate, perchance to dream, even a little insolent. Cheeky chappies all – rather like the adorable piccaninies begging for scraps outside. Mrs Posh says that something else she had was also “very nice thanks” which adds much to this review I feel. What a cherubic little poppet she is. I do love her so.

Our fellow diners were a teasing compote of hee-hawing nonentity, racism and wasted education. “This is absolutely what Brixton needs” we chirruped (for we never disagree), now stuffed like gluttonous dictators in our eerie perched high above Chav Street. Somehow it was all so deliciously reminiscent of the sacking of the Jewish ghettos during the 1939 45 war, I ruminate retrospectively as I pen this now, at this moment, myself, here.

“Right Up My Back Stairs” must be the best kept cliché, er, secret, in south London. A soupçon of the Third Reich on our doorstep! We are such lucky, lucky people. “Chacun a son gout” I conclude. Whatever the fuck that means.

By Hubert Vibrant-Hubb

“I'm surprised they bothered really”, I confided to my partner, “putting a restaurant for our class of people here”, as we entered the bijou Victorian attic, a room artfully accessorised to look like a salon of the French Renaissance (or something, we don't really know but we love feeling like we're in an exclusive clique where only people like us know to what we refer. Apparently it used to be a cupboard).

I surmised the intended ambience is ultimately that of what some might call Fin de Siecle Neoclassique, but... “does it pass the acid test of our refined sensibilities” my English Rose was want to enquire. Well, we shall see.

Ensconced at a window table we were able to observe omnibuses and passing ethnics in the street below, certainly a diverting pre-prandial human zoo I mused, while quaffing my somewhat recidivist champagne. Our waitress was an apotheosis of sneered disdain as she took our order. Her indulgence of our guilt a titilating frisson. The menu? Extensive, if a little derelict – a nod to the inner city locale mayhap?

We alighted on an eighteen course repast – a snip at £3095 (excluding fawning, which customers are required by the owners to do themselves). Our starters were a liver and lager consommé (a tad aggressive) and a pate of lemur heart (authentically Madasgascan but rather perfunctory, Mrs Posh was quite upset). For main, I had guinea-pig tongue in a rhubarb hollandaise sauce (exotic, erotic, sumptuous), and my partner in culinary and topographical posturing optioned for the warm mousseline of mallard imprisoned in a marzipan sarcophagus and drizzled in sputum, pavement-matured in the environs. (They don't tell everyone about this for fear of overwhelming demand, it is organically harvested). She says it didn't deliver in the flavour department. “How was it in the haberdashery department darling”, I quipped. I am so funny and erudite.

To follow; a simple peasant sausage each (an homage to the native population), garnished with a bounteous arabesque of crème fraîche and Pickled Onion Monster Munch. Impressive, especially when one is distracted by attempting to appear familiar with the vacuous etiquette of the aspirant classes, isn't one. The other sixteen dishes, suffice to say they were insouciant, adequate, perchance to dream, even a little insolent. Cheeky chappies all – rather like the adorable piccaninies begging for scraps outside. Mrs Posh says that something else she had was also “very nice thanks” which adds much to this review I feel. What a cherubic little poppet she is. I do love her so.

Our fellow diners were a teasing compote of hee-hawing nonentity, racism and wasted education. “This is absolutely what Brixton needs” we chirruped (for we never disagree), now stuffed like gluttonous dictators in our eerie perched high above Chav Street. Somehow it was all so deliciously reminiscent of the sacking of the Jewish ghettos during the 1939 45 war, I ruminate retrospectively as I pen this now, at this moment, myself, here.

“Right Up My Back Stairs” must be the best kept cliché, er, secret, in south London. A soupçon of the Third Reich on our doorstep! We are such lucky, lucky people. “Chacun a son gout” I conclude. Whatever the fuck that means.

By Hubert Vibrant-Hubb