‘Didn’t I tell you? We’re also a members club now,’ Walters says. Two and a half cocktails later, I prop myself at the bar, braced to learn the cost of the membership. ‘There’s no fee, you just have to be a regular customer,’ he tells me, handing over a matte black membership card and a roulette chip inscribed with ‘Club 64’. ‘Come back one evening when the salon’s closed,’ he instructs. When I walk past the large queues outside All Bar One and enter the unassuming looking spot the following Friday, there’s not a hint of salon in sight — only low lights, animated conversation and a roaring fire, all hidden behind a discreet blackout blind.