Spring. Autumn. Times of year when it’s warm enough to ditch the coat, but cool enough to need a thin jumper. Where you can just gad about, happy as a clam. When it’s around 18 degrees celsius – which is actually 64 degrees fahrenheit. Can you see where we’re going with this? Nowhere, actually, because the 64 degrees in question is celsius – the temperature at which you’d slow-cook an egg, in the achingly fashionable way. This is the London outpost of an achingly fashionable Brighton restaurant, now open in a quirky Pimlico hotel.