Henri review: what’s the restaurant’s raison d’etre? I don’t know

In Henri, that means a space of marble-topped tables with latte-coloured skirts, walls with terracotta tiles, a honeycomb floor. It means candles lit early afternoon, Duralex tumblers, and an open kitchen at the back glimmering with brass and babbling with chef chatter. It is somewhere of bauble lights and mirrors and art. Oh, and noise, cacophonous noise. Was it to make room for said elephant that prompted Boxer to cram the tables so tightly together? They are practically terraced here, meaning both gossip (welcome!) and business chat (not!) is hurled in every direction. The answer, of course, would be for everybody to chat to their neighbours, make friends, have a laugh. But this is London. Don’t be daft.