Garfunkel's, Heathrow Airport
by Hashley Brown
It is a commonly held misconception in these parts that an early morning flight makes one immune to the effects of the night before. And so it was that I found myself on the wrong side of a night on the rill and the right side of passport control at Heathrow Terminal 4.
Dismayed not to be able to test the mettle of Mr Banger's previous recommendations, I took advice from the coutured lady at the "Caviar & Prunerie" delicatessen and headed for Garfunkel's.
For sheer diner appeal Garfunkel's doesn't do too badly and culled from a shortlist of equally unappealing corporate eateries the offer of a "great british breakfast" quickened this writer's waning pulse. Pot of tea and paper later, my surly waitress delivered a promising start - bacon, sausage, egg, mushrooms, grilled tomatoes and hash brown. Many breakfasts stand or fall on the quality of their egg. In this case however it was an egg masquerading as a trojan horse - a work of art behind which lurked a cowardly excuse for a breakfast.
The egg was perfect, runny and firm in all the right places, but as for the rest! The mushrooms had a faint lemony tang not disimilar to that of a bottle of Cif; the tomatoes had had but the briefest dalliance with a grill and were flavourless to boot; and the sausage whilst appearing plump and meaty concealed a thick layer of yellowing fat beneath its crispy skin.
Even with the promise of exotic shores this breakfast was a disappointment, and today I learned the hard way that one should never trust a lady who sells prunes.