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Embla is dark. In fact, it’s barely lit for dinner, the cavernous room illuminated mainly by downlights and the wood oven’s glowing embers. And that’s the magic.

Venture to a back table or prop up at the bar and slip into your own little world: one where the chenin blanc is aged under flor, the glassware is Gabriel, and you can trade gossip virtually incognito. Window sills are lined with bottles from every cult producer you’ve ever dreamed of drinking, while the list promises new discoveries.

Doorstop slices of sourdough help shoulder the weight of left-of centre small plates such as artfully plated tartare with almond cream and fried wild rice. Pared-back dishes shine. Blue-eye is dressed in tomato and saffon, and vongole with fregola and pork sausage is satisfyingly salty on many levels. Expressive, moody, playful – Embla contains multitudes.