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Holster those pistols, cowboy: this is a saloon of a different sort. A year after reopening, the city’s requisite brasserie is firing on all Colt Singles. Steak frites deviates only slightly from the classic French playbook: O’Connor bavette seared until rose-pink and topped with porcini butter that collapses into rivers of sauce.

Scallops in the half-shell are cocooned in fluffy puff pastry. Rum baba arrives deconstructed and doused in Sailor Jerry, with deposits of sticky-sweet creme patissiere and blood orange crescents.

Sociable staff flaunt a profound knowledge of the Euro-meets-Aussie wine list, present specials in conspiratorial tones and need no more than eye contact to arrange more bread for your chicken liver parfait.Sit in the red-ceilinged dining room or in the upstairs terrace – either way it’s respite from Hardware Lane’s tourist throng.