It’s said that Annie Chapman, one of Jack the Ripper’s victims, downed her last beer at this Spitalfields boozer while another, Mary Kelly, picked up her clients outside, and for an icky period in the ‘70s, the pub capitalized on infamy by being renamed for their slayer. All that unsavoriness is past, and the hipsters are here. The pub’s Victorian tilework has been faithfully restored, and a new mural was added to celebrate the modern artistic vitality of the neighborhood. Today the clientele is young and friendly, the furniture casually mismatched, and the pub (which hosts a gourmet British restaurant upstairs) is a cheerful specimen of a well-aled “local” that parties more intensely as the evening advances. Nicholas Hawksmoor’s Christ Church, which towers next door, silently observes the latest mortals at play.