Harry Farmer visits the Soho branch of Hummus Brothers and ponders the student obsession with the chickpea based deity.

So, what can I tell you about So? It’s a Japanese fusion restaurant hidden in the snaking back alleys near Piccadilly Circus, almost entirely frequented by Japanese people the night we visited and pretty impressive.

In a bid to avoid cliché, and a calorie induced coma, Harry Farmer only eats of some of the pies.

A lot of critics seem obliged to say that Brasserie Joel is a great restaurant in the wrong location. It’s the usual snobbery towards hotels in genera,l and south of the river in particular. I disagree. It’s a great restaurant that happens to be in a hotel. Full stop.

For people who eat out at a high level regularly, it’s the small touches that make the difference between one fine-dining restaurant and another. Joanna Biddolph finds many exquisite touches, in the décor and on her plate, at 10 times Michelin-starred Tamarind.

Professional philistine and theatrophobe Harry Farmer discovers an infinitely better way to spend a night in the West End than at a musical.

I’m a glutton for punishment. Actually, scratch that, I’m just a glutton. It’s no surprise then that when I was offered a reservation for Copenhagen’s Noma, I not only jumped at the chance, I booked myself a same-day return flight, scheduled to depart only a few days after my return from New York. Like I said: glutton.

The entrance to Drift is around the side of the Heron Tower, but it’s worth going into the main reception to ‘ask directions’ just to stare in awe at the fish tank. In fact it’s not so much a tank as Europe’s largest privately owned aquarium. It’s so massive you expect a heavily tied up James Bond to suddenly drop into it, and then a shark to appear looking peckish.

Hamilton’s culinary philosophy is driven by a desire to please using organic, fair trade and local suppliers and their promise of offering ‘good, honest dishes made with quality ingredients where the person cooking them loves food and doesn’t take themselves too seriously” is being delivered in spades.

‘What’s the point of sitting inside at a restaurant whose USP is the view of Tower Bridge?” I whisper, menacingly, to a quivering S at Cantina del Ponte. S, who arrived at the Italian restaurant ten minutes before me, has happily plonked herself inside on a summer’s night when I wanted to sit on its lavender and olive-planted terrace.