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The less observant could easily stride past Philippe and miss out on a slice of lauded French hospitality. The eponymous Philippe Mouchel fusses over dishes in an open kitchen that spills its amber glow into the neat subterranean dining room.

A brick of pâté en croute, glazed and primped with pastry flowers, sits on the counter: resistance is futile. Many flock to the classics – tartare, buttery snails, wildly rich devilled eggs – but gnocchi Parisienne is equally essential, as light as the wisps of Emmenthal foam on top.

Ducks dry in a cabinet, but the rotisserie’s magic makes chicken breast just as luxurious. Lacquered and golden, it arrives with brioche and truffle stuffing and a jus that’s like the pure distillation of the bird. Credit cards can be flashed for lobster thermidor – just remember to pre-order. Food like this isn’t fashion, it’s style.