Mother

First up: Mother isn’t easy to find. It’s a candlelit cavern under an arch near Battersea Power Station, which throws Google Maps into a bit of a panic.

When you get there, you learn that its schtick is seawater-sourdough bases that have, apparently, blown Copenhagen’s mind. This reflects not especially well on Danish pizza, because the menu reads much better than it tastes. Scorched without and chewy within, they look the business, though seasoning is an issue. An oozy buffalo mozzarella-topped one ticked all the boxes, but the ‘Nick Says It’s Good’ (mozzarella, cauliflower, green olives, anchovies, capers, chilli, pecorino) was oddly underpowered.

From the starter section, bruschetta with porcini, ricotta and rocket was four gritty mushrooms and some bag-end leaves atop what tasted like fridge-cold Philly. The chickpea version, a smear of hummus on woolly bread, was another heart-sinker. Even the burrata was weirdly tasteless.

The best bits were the tiramisu, which came in a 1980s-style coupe glass, and the staff, who couldn’t have been lovelier. On a Friday evening Mother’s long tables were crowded with Nappy Valley families, headed up by parents who were too busy trying to stop little Fergus and Minty dousing themselves in chilli oil to pay much attention to the food. Maybe that’s for the best.