Bianka orders the pasta you would not

Behind the glass

Bianka reads a menu the way other people read a letter from an old friend: slowly, twice, smiling at the good parts. Curvy, 165 cm tall, she wears long light brown hair lifted at the ends by summer, and her hazel eyes warm up by the minute. Her wardrobe comes from charity rails and old films: a nipped waist, a pencil skirt, a single strand of pearls from a market stall that she swears is older than the pair of you combined.

Warm is the first word guests reach for. Attentive is the second, because she remembers what you said about your daughter's exams and asks about them an hour later. Her English is quick and full of feeling, the voice of someone in her early twenties who learned to cook from a handwritten notebook and never stopped. Weekends mean flour, a rolling pin and far too many tomatoes. Wine she tastes properly, nose first, and she will quietly steer you off the priciest bottle when the one below it is better.

On this side of town the evening belongs to Charlotte Street. She books a corner at Norma, the Sicilian dining room a few doors north of the Oxford Street end, orders the pasta you would never have chosen, and watches your face as you taste it. Dessert is not up for discussion. Afterwards Fitzrovia is calm enough for walking, the side streets are lamplit and low, and she slips her arm through yours without making a speech about it.

Knightsbridge is home, a short taxi up Park Lane from Fitzrovia and every good table between. Dinner dates suit her best with a day of notice so the kitchen can hold the right seat, and the rates page shows the four hour dinner booking at £900.