Saturday night found me further north in the capital's geography than I usually care to wander, up in Finchley with Zarathustra, Hagar and partners eating delicious food in a Persian eatery called Shiraz (A name that provides the perfect excuse for serving up Aussie plonk without wandering "off message".)
On the surface Shiraz is impeccably contemporary, yet quickly reveals its kitschy inner self with admirably little self-consciousness. Very authen-tack. I actually have a lot of time for places like this that feature a guy in an ill-fitting suit playing a keyboard deck amist the dance of disco lights. It reminds me of lazy afternoons eating coconut ice-cream down Mexico way listening to old men squeezing out heart-aching boleros on their Yamahas.