Is it possible to enjoy a solo supper at London’s most romantic restaurant? Jo Taylor heads to Andrew Edmunds

Unless you’ve wriggled through life unscathed, you’re likely well aware that romance can be a glorious, hideous, torturous thing. Marketed as a privilege preserved for those in pairs, it’s thrilling when you have it, taunting when you want it and repulsing when you don’t. Though, as evidenced by the ‘Self-Care Movement’ (shudder), it is possible to romance oneself with acts of self devotion, betrothed or not. This can manifest in whichever way you choose (unless it’s being #ThatGirl, in which case please stop), and predictably, I enjoy wooing myself by eating with the same gusto as Donna and Tom from Parks and Rec. In other words: treat yo-self!

However, I’m curious: is it possible to enjoy a solo supper at London’s most romantic restaurant? Of course, anyone cooking for you is an act of love, but all visceral human emotions considered, to eat while swarmed by couples without feeling awkward, lonely, longing, a twinge of your gag reflex, or the urge to flick mash potato at them might just be a push. Custodian of the title, Andrew Edmunds, might as well have been dreamt up by Cilla Black, Fred Sirieix and Maya Jama’s interior design studio. A vision of old Soho named after its late founder, the tiny spot is primed for seduction with flickers of warm candlelight and tables so small your knees can’t help but brush.

Thankfully, my knees don’t touch a thing as I plonk myself downstairs, enveloped by emerald walls and wonky frames containing Edmunds’ vast collection of illustrations of OWM in wigs. As I shed my puffa and adjust my chair, I’m already fairly certain the food will be good. Not just because the timeless spot is universally adored, but because I’m guilty. Guilty of being one of those gruesome couples, huddled in a corner twirling my hair, pretending to read the wine list before ordering the second cheapest bottle.

Which raises a point: where are all the couples? Peering around, there’s a severe lack of canoodling to be found. Instead, the room buzzes with colleagues in roll necks, an American mother and daughter, and (unless my throupledar is down) two tables of friends. Sweet relief. Perhaps I won’t be suffocated by romance. Perhaps this will simply be any other table for one.

A tall, chilled glass of Gallimard champers and a rich, iridescent hunk of smoked mackerel, horseradish cream and doorstep cylinders of juicy, pickled cucumber promises it will be. Though just as I begin the ultimate sin of seduction (elegantly picking the bones from my teeth) a couple slide in to the table directly in front of me. Soon they’re holding hands and sharing a bowl of soup with a single spoon. Somehow my presence begins to feel intrusive. Instead, I focus my attention on the other tables, but even that feels as though I’m trespassing. When I have to force myself not to shout ‘I’ll take your spare Streetcar Named Desire tickets!’ at the pals two tables over, I know I must prepare to commit the ultimate sin. I have to get my book out.

The next two courses are a revelation. Yes, the blissfully decadent plate of rigatoni with Pluto sized chickpeas, a sticky tomato sauce and a liberal mound of cheese is what we all hope a loved one will deposit in front of you after a hard day. And the double-agent lemon posset, both silky smooth and devilishly cutting, is sublime. But as the room grows louder with every pour, I realise that the romance people feel here has nothing to do with being in a couple, rather it’s found in the safety of each dark corner, where any of us can confide our deepest secrets with ease. When there is little more to occupy a solo diner than a single waiter zipping around, listening in feels like a breach of contract. So bring a book, bring a friend or bring a lover, but remember: what happens in Edmunds stays in Edmunds.