Somewhere in Shoreditch there’s a yellow door. Behind it, a lift. Press seven.

The doors open and London quietly stops counting. Someone’s shaking a Pisco Sour, a table of ten is fighting over the last bite of ceviche, a first date is pretending not to look at the view, and the city glows all around the glass like it’s somebody else’s problem.

Up here, a quick drink becomes dinner, dinner becomes the last table to leave, and nobody’s checking the time.

In summer, the terrace stays golden until late. In winter, the sun sets over Shoreditch around four, just in time for your first Pisco Sour, and we retreat into the greenhouse: candlelight, warm plates and rain on the glass, cosier than your sofa and with better food.

A Peruvian restaurant and Pisco bar, born in Brooklyn, living seven floors above Shoreditch.