Coq d’Argent is a terrible restaurant. The food is bland. The decor tired. The service obsequious. The clientele loud and obnoxious, so overdressed it is as if they aren’t actually sure they’re allowed to be there. It might be on a seventh-floor rooftop right in heart of the City, but it’s a pit.

Yet it’s one of the pits I still frequent on a semi-regular basis. That I continue to do so says a lot about why I still love the City, even as, in a matter of weeks, I prepare for a post-lockdown move to the country.