She arrives in London trailing smoke, saffron and stories ( we love an alliteration). She orders too much, insists you have another bite, tears bread before you've sat down and somehow convinces everyone to stay for one more bottle.

Her table is never tidy. Plates overlap. Herbs spill everywhere.
Charcoal kisses everything it touches. Someone is always reaching across for the last koobideh. By the end of the night, everyone has red wine stained teeth, yoghurt on their sleeve and no interest in going home.

Which is ironic.
Because somewhere along the way, they already did.