Last week I found myself in Favela Chic near Old Street - a Brazilian bar and restaurant decorated in the style of a shanty town. On one of their famous Friday nights, a silver fox was hitting the DJ booth, and the caprinhas and tequila shots were flowing like it was just another night in Rio.
My innermost apologies to all who oppose the title of my article, but I feel it necessary to blame the Saxons and their inexcusable attempt at naming this wondrous area after a ‘filthy stream that once ran nearby’ – Sewerditch. I’m no historian, no cultural expert, and take no responsibility in offering correct geographical facts or figures. I am simply an observer. A framer. A lover. And here, I share with you my own personal virginal memoirs of Shoreditch.
It was one of those nights. You know the ones I mean – the ones where you’re not exactly sure where you went and what you did, but you know you had fun and didn’t do anything too heinous. It had also been a date night, and at 1 AM the date in question was still hanging on my arm, so I guess it couldn’t have been a total failure; that’s when a guy comes up to us, with a friend behind him videotaping the proceedings and another holding a box.
The East has become the new West. Even the classic city banker with speed dial access to ‘members only’ clubs secretly wants a peek-a-boo into this fascinating area which blatantly is coolness personified. Shoreditch is no longer an oasis for fashion nonconformists; it has now become home to a new breed of hipsters who incorporate a sense of demure refinement into their attire, along with a sense of discernment.
