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 had this meal where I was perched on the end of a dining table inside a kitchen. My friend and I had to sit side by side. There was a dog there. I think it was a restaurant, but I’m not really sure. We were in a converted Victorian horse stable. Most of the space was outside, in the stable yard. You couldn’t book it: you had to pop your name down then head to the pub for an hour. And there were just six things on the menu, all of them cold. And the only people working there were a couple, and one waitress. And the guy from the couple went round the restaurant at the end with a bucket of his homemade vermouth, topping up people’s spritzes. And when the bill came, you just told them what you’d had.

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.

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.

Q. When guests are leaving our house they sometimes ask: “Would you like me to strip my bed?” The truthful answer is often: “No, because you are very clean and only stayed one night and I may decide to reuse your bed for one of the hulking slob friends of my son who stay.” But if I say this, the guest might wonder if they went into “pre-used” sheets. Worst-case scenario, they do not ask and turn up downstairs with an armful of bedding. What should I do? – C.W., Stoke Abbott, Dorset A. When asked by a guest if they should strip the sheets, reply: “Please don’t. Our daily has such little self-esteem as it is, she would really mind if you cheated her of the whole job.” Q.