Tavola, Hell’s Kitchen, NYC. A few years ago, I spent a long weekend in New York with my Mum to celebrate her 70th birthday. We walked and walked, and found ourselves on a nondescript block somewhere in West Manhattan. Our aching feet sought solace from the sidewalks in a gorgeous Italian restaurant on the corner of W 37th Street. The meal was forgettable (pesto and olive pizza, I believe), but it remains one of the most visually arresting places I’ve ever eaten. Vintage Cinzano signs, tin after dusty tin of San Marzano tomatoes, a glazed Neapolitan-tiled ceiling and an antique wall of rough red bricks behind the stone counter that must have witnessed excited conversations and who knows what else down the years.