walluc bistro
ramshackle in a way you (i) don’t associate with london — candle-lit and shabby — walluc is the kind of place that you think mightn’t be there the very next morning; by day there’s a laundromat there, you can only find it and enter when the moon is up or something similarly folk-tale-ish
the walls are dense with weird bric-a-brac, posthorns, ladders, a silhouette of a scarecrow; they don’t take credit cards, they forgot to even offer us dessert, and weren’t around to be asked for stuff half the time — there was a mysterious noisy party going on somewhere deep in the bowels of the place; the pictures on the stairs down to the kitchen and washrooms were just frames with no pictures in; the menu is italian on one side, french on the other — tho fondue is surely swiss… and it was totally haunting and recommendable
40 redchurch street, just off the brick end lane of bethnal green road
THEY DON’T SERVE BUTTER <— wtf?? this is bafflingly awesome
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