Three memorable things occurred at Skosh before I had eaten my first mouthful. Firstly, I was taken with the manager’s easy, ironic riffing on the awkwardness of taking someone’s coat. ‘The very thing that should be hospitable suddenly makes you feel rushed,’ he smiled, as Mrs N tangled herself up in her jacket like Frank Spencer.
Then, after placing an emergency toastie order to placate a small child (my own, I should add), the same bloke returned, unprompted, with ketchup for Naylor 2.0. Call me a bad parent, but that’s what I call service.
Finally, when the waitress came to take our order she reassured us that – HALLELUJAH! – Skosh’s globetrotting small plates would arrive not, as is common, in one overwhelming, speed-eating splurge, but sensibly staggered. The cold…