By Anne DesBrisay
A digital timer arrives with tea. It’s the only jarring ingredient at a Nectar lunch. But once it dings — three minutes, forty three and a half seconds later (give or take) — indicating that the ideal steeping time for that particular brew has been met and you then dutifully remove the pouch of leaves from the edge of the white pot and place the soggy brown bulge on the waiting saucer (which is then scurried away), there remains not a thing about lunch at Nectar to ruffle a feather. Which is the idea. Service is sweet, the pace is gentle, the tea delicious (ideally steeped), the food really very tasty and the portions — be warned — dainty.
It’s likely inappropriate to say, but this is a lunch for ladies. Bring your great aunt, your neighbour, your BFF. But bring a 17-year-old boy at your peril: the delicate arrangements will be scarfed before the timer has dinged.