In the furthest reaches of Richmond, where the train meets the river, a divey old boozer is reskinned and reinvigorated for the Roaring ’20s. Timber panels, Carlton Draught taps, sport playing silently on screens. Young men in hi-vis bend the elbow out front. Inside, a tiled horseshoe bar sweeps across the room. Twentysomethings on dates perch at high tables. Pool balls clack under a fringed lamp.

The Sunday roast is dead simple − beef, potatoes, carrots, gravy − but for a little celeriac remoulade and salsa verde to remind you someone else made it. The parma is slathered with tomato sugo for acid and sweetness, the cheese a proper, tangy mozzarella, sourced from That’s Amore.

And it ain’t just counter meals: dumplings with gossamer wrappers protect a cloud of minced prawn. Falafel comes with all the trimmings: babaghanoush, zingy slaw, flatbread. And the pork chop? Charred but juicy all the way through, it’s cooked better than at many restaurants. The “Riser” is so back.

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