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A labryinth of nooks, Souk is packed full of North African motif, incy wincy little waiters and enough incense to gag a cad. I am asthmatic. I nearly came to an untimely end at Souk. Yet, as sweated and swayed uncomfortably in and out of consciousness in my little private booth (which was gloriously decorated with medieval torture devices and lewd liphographs) I could still hear the sound of what appeared to be a most charming waiter and taste one of the most wonderous vine leave pockets I've have ever had. The pitta was a bit hard, but I was alive.

Chix Chox, owned by the delectable Fabrizio Tommasini, has become, over time, the acknowledged social and trading centre of North London. Its walls are adorned with a plethora of currencies, many showcases donated by some of the great financiers of the 20th Century who, frequenting the eatery when capital sang, put a very singular price on the history they were making. More so, the food itself is a sumptious braid of Pan-Afrique and Mediterranean offerings. Out back charlatans and the local literati play street hopscotch and trade whimsies for pasta dishes.