This is Yorkville, and despite its twee-sounding name, this milieu takes itself very seriously. As detestable as dressing to impress is, that’s probably what’s required for access, and once inside you may be perplexed by the militant door policy. A cavernous, candlelit starkly-white bar is perfectly fine, but it’s empty in the summer because it’s all about the patio.

It’s a small, whitewashed clapperboard tree house (for it lies under the boughs of leafy trees) where a DJ blasts out the latest tunes. Lithe ladies with moths in their wallets shake their hips to impress lean lotharios. Tables are for boys with bottles and the girls who drink them, and capacity is super-tight: never was so much fun had by such a select few.