When stores end their term around this neighbourhood, phew, they just go. Shouta Ramen, Uogashi Sushi, so many others recently.

Whoosh. It used to be a pleasure at Inaricho to sit back in the narrow black room behind the faded sci-fi facade of Fukuraiken, almost salivating in anticipation of the powerful flavours of Mr Yao’s cabbage bean-paste stir-fry, with homemade rayuu chilli paste from the recipe he figured out in Hong Kong (secret ingredient: fish), your meal sluicing from his wok with a sizzle only he could conjure, helped by his sister in the kitchen, and served by the towering yet shy Italian religious student Alex.

So last week you go by for lunch and there’s this note on the door. Which says, It’s over, thanks for your custom and sorry we couldn’t say goodbye.

Whatever you’re up to, Mr Yao, may it be piping hot. Thanks for your food.