Sican

Ah, the charmed allure of London's dining landscape where irony often garnishes the platters. My recent foray into the popular, yet perilously named Sican, proved to be the kind of adventure that left one wondering if they were billed for the concert of musical mishaps or indeed, a culinary rendezvous. Step inside, and you're greeted with a medley of hesitant service wrapped up in nightclub tristesse, somewhere between mystery meat and microwave sushi.

The staff, working tirelessly to eclipse previous reviews akin to performance art, somehow tread the delicate balance of providing both hilariously premature payment requests and the attention span of a caffeinated bunny elsewhere. Even as diners contort to salsa seats amidst dithering dishes, there's a curious fascination wafting from those brave-hearted fire performers who, quite tragically, mirror the tumultuous spirit of the venue itself—undeniably singeing around the edges. Yet, the essence of intrigue remains—the food boldly unclassifiable, resuscitated by cocktails as spirited as they are quizzically diluted. Call it convoluted theatre, but who knew dining could oscillate so gaily between chaos, comedy, and charm? In truth, only at Sican could we find such absurdity enchantingly piecemeal. — Penelope Savory