We stumbled upon this place as the heavens opened and I plus one were forced to duck for cover. Serendipity herself! We’d been prowling the Wardour St, Brewer St, Beak and Air St quadrant in an endless line dance, indecision slowing the step, as hunger mounted and conversation waned in the desperate search for satiation. As ever, Soho’s glut of edible options paralysed the synapses, till fate spoke and the rain brought us here.
A contrived picture of Sunday afternoon relaxation greeted us. Exposed brickwork with symmetrically hung, mismatching lamps. Self-consciously suspended bunches of capsicum. Wooden tables with those tin buckets bearing cutlery and paper napkins (serviettes perhaps more idiomatic to the pedestrian decorator). No matter. We were stuck, and happily so, for…
What varied delights awaited us! Jack Sprat and his wife would have felt perfectly at home. For those averse to fat, or of a bird-like disposition, the small halloumi and avocado salad, dotted with quinoa, could not be faulted. Mrs Sprat meanwhile can feast her eyes on ribs and steaks and mountains of cheeseburgers. Wine, beer, milkshakes, fizzy pop; breakfast, lunch, tea, dinner – you name it, Bill will serve it.
Be as self-consciously casual as your host. Don’t book. In a less kamikaze version of “treat ‘em mean, keep ‘em keen”, an assignation at this restaurant will impress upon him or her your unwillingness to plan ahead or break the bank, but without compromising on ambience or food. A destination for low-maintenance after-work, or post-coital weekend, dating that will put you back no more than £40.
Bill’s is part of a chain but unless your companion has spent much time in Lewes or Brighton, they are unlikely to spot it.
3. As the founding fathers of Tantra might have said, relaxation is the sine qua non of orgasm.