The Dover turns two this month; it opened quietly enough, with barely a whisper of PR, no social media and the owner openly admitting that atmosphere would, for him, always trump whatever came out of the kitchen. It served New York-inspired Italian at the time when French bistros were in their resurgent pomp. And yet immediately, it was a smash. It is the perfect date restaurant, being sufficiently beautiful to make its diners feel beautiful, an invaluable trait aided by the flatteringly low lights. Staff help; they seem to glide, never intruding. There is, truth be told, always a sense of naughtiness in the air, as if at any moment a model and a race-car driver might appear from the loos together. Afterwards, you want to go out, find a dancefloor, and dance till it’s light again. There will always be a place for that.
