In the world of social games, there are those who invent the profession of Influencer, some prefer to be called Tastemakers while others claim the title of Trendsetters. The trend craze: the bone-cancer that gnaws at the core. The Plague of Millennials, the viral epidemic of times crashing against the wall of inevitable change. Call it the Dictatorship of running times, categorizing to stigmatize. Control to punish. With Marine, Salvini, and Erdogan in tow, every trend is a tear in the status quo. But not a threat, far from being a criticism, rather a slight note that will last as long as it lasts, giving the impression of rupture in continuity. Because in a “Gattopardian” manner, approval is given for change to not change anything at all.

If you were to ask Jeremy Chan, his choice would be:
1) Are you a trendsetter?
2) Are you trendy?
3) So, which trend do you reckon you belong to?

He surely shudders a little, envisioning himself with a barcode tattooed on his wrist. Ready for use and traceability for the most practical exploitation.

He already knows. Soon enough—haven’t you noticed?—they’ll be calling him the forerunner of the latest craze our radar has picked up: the “Negro Revival” for fine diners. Mind you, beneath a few stray hairs scattered around his chin, his skin is pale milk with a buttery sheen on the surface; you couldn’t make it whiter or softer even with a tin of Nivea. Perhaps it’s the London greys, but sorting out the Canadian versus Chinese heritage—who did what, which parent was a finance whizz and who spent their days in an artist’s studio? Was it the Chinese father, or perhaps the Canadian mother? It hardly matters; Jeremy doesn’t go into details. At thirty-one, he has amassed more life experience than cats have lives, and those poor creatures only get seven. By now, he’s more English than John Ackerley, humour tucked always in his pocket; once, he used to wear a double-breasted suit. Tongue-in-cheek, he lets things slide. And if you ask him how he ended up at the helm of the best Nigerian restaurant, he might choke slightly at the word “Nigerian,” then smile, nod, cheekily dodge the answer, and give you a wink as he turns to take his leave. Surely, he reconsiders, and then sets the appointment for the next day—two metres and a train ride later—far from his immaculate St. James’ Market restaurant, between Piccadilly Circus and the City. That is to say, in the most unlikely place to open a fine dining restaurant, African or otherwise.

So here we are the following day, a crisp yet sunny early September morning, in the neighbourhood of Peckham.