London

In 1757, the same year that Admiral Byng was executed pour encourager les autres, Simpson’s Tavern opened in the City of London at 38½ Cornhill. It became a popular chophouse in Georgian and Victorian London and people think it’s where Ebenezer Scrooge has dinner in A Christmas Carol. Simpson’s survived wars, pandemics and downturns, but couldn’t get through a rent dispute in 2022. At some point in that 265-year history, someone thought it was clever to outsource the job of landlord to a group of companies in Bermuda. Four years after the tavern shut, the site was bought by the restaurateurs behind Cloth, an English brasserie in Smithfield that opened in 2024.

I’ve ridden in Waymo driverless taxis in both Miami and Austin and it is, as you would expect, a slightly surreal experience. When an empty vehicle turns up, displays your glowing initials on the roof, then invites you to unlock the doors via your phone, you feel as if you’re in a science-fiction film. Once you drive off, it feels doubly weird. Yet what’s most surprising is how quickly it ceases to feel strange. After three minutes, you pay scarcely more attention to the progress of the vehicle than you would when riding in a car driven by any competent human driver. A colleague of mine who has used Waymo on faster roads tells me you experience another burst of unease when the car first hits 50mph, but this, too, rapidly dissipates.

My last night in London, I met a smart journalist (not always an oxymoron) for dinner at the “original” Ivy, who explained the disastrous state of conservatism in a country that badly needs it. For openers, Boris Johnson won a landslide victory in 2019 as the champion of Brexit and a hard-ass immigration enforcer. He then proceeded to quadruple migration to the UK. So trust is low for any politician on the right. I already knew that. What I didn’t know is that Johnson is the monster who implemented Britain’s kooky ban on plastic straws. My companion seemed surprised at how aghast I was, and also the fact that I don’t believe in global warming. I pointed out that, as a late sleeper who’s awoken by light, it is impossible to keep the sun out.

The worst areas to eat in London are the best places to live. Hampstead, Chelsea, Chiswick, St John’s Wood: all would be lucky to have even one restaurant that would be an 8/10 in Hackney. This is disappointing because Hackney is annoying, but, hey, hipsters make good restaurants. I wonder why these areas are so lacking. Is it because St John’s Wood Man has an underpaid cook on speed dial? Is it because Belgravian Influencer orders a shawarma every night? Is it because Hampstead Family don’t eat where they sh– hmm, yes... A little bruschetta of chopped rabbit livers comes next, visible through a translucent sheet of lardo Whatever the explanation, the exception to this rule is Wandsworth Common.