Helga Leith The bavette arrived already sliced, each piece blushing perfectly at the centre — the kind of pink that takes confidence to serve.
The chimichurri was generous, verdant, unashamed. Chips in a bowl, because some things shouldn’t be fussed with.
A glass of something dark in the background, holding its position like a good supporting character should.
Chelsea casual. Quietly correct.
The pub is lucky to have a chef de partie who notices how a plate looks as well as how it cooks.