I think this is our third year going to Skua now, making it a firm and faithful favourite. Our table is ready for us earlier than expected, as are we, so that saves us from the awkward sitting around on the street outside that normally happens when we mistime our walk over. Hazel, Andy, and I share a bottle of Riesling (the dream) while George, to be fair to him, smartly gets a chilled red. As is tradition, on a long menu of small plate options, we order pretty much one of everything, leaving only the pickles and the market fish left unturned. We start very strong with their house brioche, sticky little fingers of it that we’re practically peeling off the plate, warm and topped with butter, down in two bites but not forgotten. This is vaguely accompanied (by natural timing alone) by a plate of finocchiona, a nicely cured meat, and my oyster with a lovely fermented tomato adornment. Two portions of cheddar panisses come through, the rich creaminess cut through by dabs of picled walnuts. The shredded hispi cabbage with a pistachio foam and a noble fir almost-pesto immediately becomes a highlight of the meal, all of us recognising that we cannot steal the last bite for ourselves, a selfless act on all our parts. The cured sea trout is set off nicely by some berry and whipped cod roe. The beef tartare minimises its typical horseradish notes in favour of doubling down on the alliums, a slight pickled onion feel combined with the wild garlic, dusted in Prima Donna shavings, a pungent hit to throw you off balance in the best way. With the arrival of the Jersey Royals, in a tangy, lemony, buttery sauce and filled out with thinly sliced celeriac, we’re ready for the effective mains - a fantastic John Dory with Swiss chard and an unexpected touch of preserved green strawberries, a minimal addition but one that really works, starting savoury and only at the end leaving a note of actual strawberry; and a cut of Sika deer, dressed in a thick PX-based sauce that was simply to die for. There is only one real dessert option (ignore the cheese), so Andy and I split a brown butter ice cream on a bed of crushed malt biscuit, and even just half of that is perfect. I also have a glass of fernet-branca, so medicinal it cured something I didn’t even know I came in with. As we stumble out, I have absolutely no regrets on building our schedule for the day around making sure we’re here.