Stringfellows for the sex robot age: Bob Bob Cité reviewed

Bob Bob Cité is a restaurant dangling like testicles from the underside of the Leadenhall Building in the City of London. It is shaped like a series of yellow train carriages, for a voyage no one will ever make; the building above it manages, in the way of the age, to be both absurd and frightening. People call the Leadenhall Building the cheese–grater, but it does not make me think of kitchens. Kitchens are human and intimate; from the atrium, which is guarded by security men, this building looks like the innards of something vast and inhuman.

This is the sequel to Bob Bob Ricard, a Soho restaurant for rich men with anxiety disorders, hollow legs, and nervous thumbs. The schtick is this — you press a button at your booth, and champagne appears — House champagne, two glasses. Perhaps there is another button for pliant women — House women, two whole female bodies for Patrick Bateman to consume?