on the inside. It was feel-good, new-school, old-school, fast food or something -- and we enjoyed it. We enjoyed it, so we ordered all of the above again.We even forgot about the journalists with their long lenses snapping away at their food next to us, for a while. Just as we were finishing our last mouthfuls of our second lot of dogs, pondering whether to order another bottle of Prosecco, a different waitress plonked our bill on the table. "Did you ask for it?" we all enquired of each other while simultaneously shaking our heads. "This table is reserved from 7.30," said our waitress. Ah right. If it was booked it must have been booked by six people then. Perhaps six journalists. Even better. So we packed up, paid up -- the bill worked out at about 35 each which for a hot dog ain't cheap -- and we made our way out, past a slightly huffy girl reigning in a nightclub-style queue that stretched for half a mile down the road. This is a hot dog joint? My friends and I continued our mini reunion in the Charlotte Street Hotel bar up the road -- just as expensive but, we noted, we were made to feel quite welcome. Bubbledogs: tasty enough, but I'd say its bite doesn't quite live up to its bark. Intrigued, I Googled, read up on it, and set about turning my messy concoction into a shakshouka. Apparently this dish is Tunisian in origin and, get