Suddenly obliged to dine solo instead of a deux, Oliver finds the food makes up for the lack of conversation and he chats up a crab instead.

I think a lot of what hospitality is getting wrong at the moment is the vibe.

That may sound unquantifiable, but it is undoubtedly undeniable when you step into a restaurant and the vibe is just… off. An unquestionable feeling that the restaurant woke up on the wrong side of the bed that morning, dragged itself into work, and has been silently counting down the minutes until closing.

The Broadcaster has a vibe. The vibe. And, as the Beach Boys put it, it was giving me good, good, good vibrations and all the excitations.

Good vibes come in many forms, and this one hit me as soon as I stepped through the door. A friendly welcome, without that slightly terrifying, feigned enthusiasm that we all know far too well, which felt just about cool enough to make me think: yes, I picked the right spot for a Tuesday night dinner.

Given that I now felt cool (which is quite a rare instance for me), and found myself on a rooftop terrace during golden hour, it felt only right to lean into what the cool crowd do in every bar nowadays: order a margarita.

But this was no ordinary margarita. It was a spicy margarita (wait, the cool kids do that too). Fine, it was The Broadcaster’s very own Smoked & Spiced, which not only had the usual shabang, but the addition of mezcal for that extra tickle of smoke. It was strong, it was spicy, and it was the perfect recipe to get me vibing.

Now, let me preface this next section by saying that this was an involuntary self-date.

The person I had invited had to rush away at the last minute to get a mattress out of her hallway (yeah, that doesn’t make sense to me either), while the rest of my friends were far too busy living their lives to accommodate a last-minute dinner invitation.

But that wasn’t going to stop me being the greedy boy that I am.

Beef carpaccio, yellowtail tuna crudo, crab on toast. Woof. What a start.

The carpaccio was delicately ribboned with pickled turnip and black garlic, with a singular egg yolk placed on top, glossy and golden and begging to burst. And boy, did it. Simple but triumphant.

Now, the tuna crudo was something I was particularly curious about. Having worked in seafood restaurants for the last five years, I’ve enjoyed my fair share of thinly sliced, cured ocean dwellers; some in formal tastings, others scoffed at the back when there was no time to have a break on my 12-hour shift. Broadcaster’s crudo, unbeknownst to them, was therefore somewhat of a ‘restaurant quality test’.

From the top down: perfectly cured, salted, citrusy tuna (tick); spicy, umami-heavy gochujang mayo (tick tick); crispy potato, crunchy on the outside and pillowy in the middle (tick tick tick).

Passed with flying colours.

And with that little test out of the way, I could get back to the much more important business of eating everything put in front of me.

Next up: the crab on toast.

I have a fairly simple philosophy when it comes to crab on toast. If you put crab on bread, cover it in enough unnecessary nonsense to disguise the crab, and charge me £15 for the privilege, I will be annoyed. If you give me good crab, good bread and let them do the talking, I will probably marry you.

Broadcaster, thankfully, chose the latter.

(Wedding’s in the spring, you’re all invited.)

Sweet, delicate crab piled generously onto properly toasted bread, with just enough going on to keep things interesting without turning it into a GCSE Food Tech project. The crab was still very much the star, as it should be. No fuss, just good, fresh crab from St Ives.

By this point, the self-date had taken a rather fortunate turn. What began as me begrudgingly accepting that I would be eating alone had become an evening of ordering exactly what I wanted.

Though, with all of those ingredients, I’m not sure anyone wanted to be near my stank breath. Definitely not a vibe.

My last little joy of the evening was recommended by my waiter. Now, don’t get me wrong, I was stuffed. But there was an insistence that I enjoy a sweet treat, particularly the strawberry trifle.

“What a shame,” I thought. “The vibe was perfect up until I was recommended what I consider one of the most pointless desserts ever created.” I’d rather just have fresh strawberries and call it a day.

But I caved.

And, much to my annoyance, I was impressed.

The chefs had infused the cream with cardamom and lime leaf, giving it this savoury-sweet combination that I didn’t know I was in need of. Suddenly, the strawberry trifle had gone from one of my least exciting dessert options to something I was silently very pleased to have been bullied into ordering.

Dining alone, I’ve realised, is actually quite a good way to assess a restaurant’s vibe. You notice things you might otherwise miss: the way staff talk to each other, whether they’re genuinely enjoying themselves, whether the laughter is real or whether someone has just remembered they’re supposed to look like they’re having fun.

And The Broadcaster is good vibes. Not simply because the food is delicious, the drinks are punchy, or the golden hour is perfect for selfies, but because the staff genuinely seem to enjoy being there. They’re chatting with guests, having inside jokes, cackling with each other and gliding between tables serving food they clearly know is great.

That’s what The Broadcaster gets right. It leans into the most important ingredient in any restaurant: happy staff.

The rest comes naturally.