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On what some would consider a culinarily cursed strip, the Rec has long proven fortuitous for all who stumble upon it.

Not that anyone’s stumbling in here, despite the BYO wine policy and a cellar stacked with splash-out drops (some with price tags to rival that of a used car). Clientele are largely of the repeat variety and the floor team has an accompished air, gliding assuredly between tables.

Behind an open pass framed in fluted glass, the chefs might be the calmest in town, plating up house-aged duck with flawlessly rendered, dukkah crusted skin; short-rib Bourguignon with chewy lardons and pommes mousseline; and supple dark chocolate ganache with cherry sorbet, all without so much as a “yes chef”.

At the end of the night, a trolley of rums and chocolate truffles is wheeled over, as good a reason as any to stick around.