Brick Lane Beigel Bake, Spitalfields

Brick Lane Beigel Bake
159 Brick Lane
Spitalfields
E1
020 7729 0616

by Henrietta Crumpet

So I wanted a bit of breakfast and decided to take the boy for a beigel. The East End’s a trek, but it’s worth hauling ass to get there. You’ve got to commit to the beigel. The boy’s a goy but I don’t hold it against him, as long as he keeps his taste for bacon away from ma. He’s never been visited by a moyel, if you know what I mean, and I’m just coming to terms with the small nose.

So it’s a Sunday afternoon and I’m thinking a nice stroll down Brick Lane, maybe buy some material (it’s a bargain there - a snip - more than the boy’s had), and get some nosh. The Beigel Bake’s an institution, open 24 hours a day, seven days a week, even on Shabbat for the gentiles. We walk in. There’s a queue but a bit of jostling never did anyone any harm - that’s what elbows are for - and I’m eavesdropping on the local gossip, when in walks this total schnoorer and starts giving me this shpiel about his bad knee and his terrible eyes. Wants to jump in front of me. What a meshugener! I mean, these beigels are good, just like aunt Fiegi used to make, boiled first, baked after, and with enough cream cheese to feed all the doctors at a Bar Mitzvah. I’m not giving up my place for anyone.

I wanted the whole schmeer: salmon, strudel, cholah, cheese cake. I’m telling you, that melt-in-the-mouth salt beef: to die for. I’m no schmoe, I know a good cholah when I see one, and I won’t pay too much gelt for it either: 15p for a plain beigel, a bargain. This place is the business, go anywhere else, you’re a schmuck. As they say; ‘Love tastes sweet, but only with bread’, and after we’d schlepped home with beigels for the whole family, I didn’t hear the boy k’vetshing about putting that to the test…

J's, West Hampstead

J’s
218 West End Lane
West Hampstead
NW6
020 7435 3703

By Goldie Quorn and Veggie Kray

Scene 1
Him: What are you having?
Her: Don’t know. But definitely lunch.
Him: Not breakfast?
Her: No lunch. Italians don’t do breakfast. They do lunch.
Him: I’m having the vege breakfast.
Her: Or I might have the eggs benedict.
Him: What IS eggs benedict?
Her: Not sure really. I think it is sort of egg sauce. On eggs.
Him: I’m having the vege breakfast.
Her: It’s lunchtime.
Him: So?
Her (Looks at menu again): Or maybe I’ll get pasta. Or brushetta. (Pause) Why don’t you get brushetta and I’ll get pasta?
Him: I’m having the vege breakfast.

Scene 2
Him: How is your eggs benedict?
Her: Nice. But the egg is way too runny. And the sauce is a bit weird. Eggy. (Pause) Nice though.
Him: Mine’s lovely.
Her: What sausages are they?
Him: Linda McCartney.
Her: Full of air. And fat. Nice though.
Him: I like them.
Her: Can I have a bit?
Him (Cutting a piece of sausage): And beans? Mushroom? Toast? Tomato?
Her: Yes please. With ketchup.
Him: I’ve only got one small sachet!
Her: The Italians don’t do ketchup.
(Pause whilst she eats huge mouthful from Veggie’s fork)
Him (Points at Goldie’s breakfast): Let’s have some of that then.
Her: It’s not that nice. The egg’s too runny. And the muffin’s soggy.
Him: You get salad though.
Her: Yeah. Bit weird with breakfast.

Scene 3
Him: Guess how much it is.
Her: I hate this game.
Him: I think it’s 12 pounds 57.
Her: I think it’s a 100 pounds.
Him (Opens bill): Hah. I win. 14 pounds 85.
Her: It’s 1 pound off each breakfast if you come before 12.00.
Him: We came for lunch.

Special Dispatch: A Tale of Two Scotlands, by Hashley Brown

Hashley Brown has been seconded to Glasgow's East End for the last three months (and he's got fatter)...

As modern lore has it Scotland is a land of deep-fried pizza munching obesity. And yes, it does have its fair share of food crimes, but it also has its Highlands and Islands, its wide open spaces that would beat any other in the UK were they contenders to the most rugged or bleak world title. Escape from the central belt of urbanity that is bookended by Glasgow in the west and Edinburgh in the east and you enter a world of Rabbie Burns and misty lochs. A tale of two Scotlands ensues. One informed by the other, but gastronomically distinct.

Scotland No. 1:

Pizza Supper: Budget pizza slung into the fryer with chips.
Pizza Crunch Supper: Budget pizza dipped in batter then slung into the fryer with chips.
Mega Munchie Box: All the Indian starters (Pakora, Bhaji etc..) deep fried with chips. In a box.

...it goes on. There is a great, overwhelming love of chips, and more chips, and fried stuff in inner city Scotland. Lots and lots of chips are consumed, preferably with cheese, all the time. Indian and Chinese takeaways offer chips as standard with all dishes. (And chip shops sell sweets too). Love of the fried potato extends to double carb meals, tattie (potato) scone rolls, takeaways that boast as being the home of the 'cous cous toastie'. Putting one form of fried carbohydrate into another is fun, if not strictly healthy.

"How does this inform one's breakfasting?" I hear you cry. Well simply this, they fry a lot. Your standard greasy spoon will serve you up a plethora of breakfast goodies, almost all straight from the fryer - link sausage, lorne sausage, hash brown, tattie scone, black pudding (and chips), none of which is of any great quality. You eat it and feel dirty afterwards.

Scotland No. 2:

When London's gastro-masses aren't guzzling Breton cider to wash down that tangy Calabrian salami they just procured, it is quite likely they are sampling the produce of their Caledonian cousins. The names of many great Scottish foods are synonymous with quality - Arbroath Smokies, Loch Fyne Oysters, MacSween's Haggis, Argyll Venison, smoked salmon from anywhere, Highland Bitters, Islay single malts (just for starters...). From Scotland's bountiful countryside comes fantastic food. Now do the sums. Add the universal maxim of Scottish breakfasts (serve em everything) to a place that prides itself on sourcing local produce and you have a breakfast for a King, or maybe a Bonnie Prince.

When in the city it pays to choose your breakfasting venue carefully to avoid bountiful grease with your substandard meat. Glasgow is gastronomically more of a challenge than Edinburgh (this writer was dismayed to hear from a local cab driver that "Glasgow's not ready for sushi...") but there are gems everywhere. Having said that, a bacon and tattie scone roll from anywhere will taste fantastic, even better if it's in Glasgow's Barrowlands market. Once you've had your fill of the cities I'd recommend hotfooting it as deep into the countryside as you can, and notching some country breakfasts onto your early morning bedstead. And remember that a Full Scottish is considerably bigger than a Full English, and that haggis, black pudding, Cloutie Dumpling & Lorne Sausage are all wonderful additions to the breakfasting repertoire (as is whisky with your porridge, but the porridge story demands far more discussion than one article will allow).

In a mere three and a half months of breakfast research, it has been impossible to measure the breadth of the Scotch breakfast, but safe to say that if you find a good one it'll keep you right all day. As long as you never, ever ask for a Full English...

Try these: Heart of Buchanan, Tapa Organic bakery, Peckhams (Glasgow), Bonhams (Edinburgh), The George Hotel (Inverary)

Elbows Café, Hackney

Elbows Café
Victoria Park
103 Lauriston Road
Hackney
E9
020 8986 2466

by Cathy Latte

I’ve awoken with a peculiar desire for vigorous exercise. I flop out of bed and off to the gym.

The thick-necked demonic woman on the rowing machine is very distracting, I have a vision of her pulsing calf vein leaping out and exploding on the wall. I feel a bit ill. Maybe I got up too fast. I plan breakfast to take my mind of it.

With a renewed zest Peggy Bread and I bound into Elbows taking our seats in big wicker chairs, the kind Cheshire housewives choose for their conservatories. They sit a little awkwardly not quite under the table, but that’s ok. Peg orders scrambled eggs and ham, the same for me but with veg. The breakfast menu’s not extensive and if you don’t like eggs then you’re a bit screwed. But there’s something virtuous about Elbows; not being surrounded by beer infused saturate cravers for a start, where toast’s served drizzled with olive oil not dripping with butter, where children guzzle nutrient soaked snacks. And it’s not that pricey either.

Food arrives and I’m about to tuck in when Peggy trumpets proudly “It’s a sprout!” As I turn she almost takes out my right eye with the impaled fork she’s waggling wildly around. Peggy, daughter of a Major is doing a marvellous impression of a flag waving, arsenal capturing lieutenant. But by darn it the girl’s right. Our fluffy eggs are punctuated with all manner of greens: sprouts, courgettes, spinach, pepper, peas. I know what you’re thinking. Sprouts and peas? And at breakfast? It should make no sense, but by golly it does, and I don’t even like sprouts. I don’t know what sauce they put on the accompanying salad but it tastes bloody great.

My oh my, what a saintly morning, I think, collating a nice big forkful of vegetation.

The Gate, Newington Green

The Gate
11 Albion Rd
Newington Green
N16
020 7923 9227

by Mama Lade

Ah, the joys of global warming. They tell me it's November, but we walked to the Gate café through sunbeams thick enough to make you fall in love. Hardly a challenge round here; Newington Green is brimming with young couples. Shell-shocked by the trench warfare of house-buying, they cling to each other a little desperately, hoping it will all be worth it. This cocktail of climate change and financially precarious romance must be what keeps the Gate busy; the befuddled locals don't notice the food. But Papa Lade and I are clear-eyed. After all we are renting, and love breakfast more than each other.

He chose the Full English (as he always does) announcing he wasn't going to eat it all so he wouldn't feel sick (as he also always does). It will surprise no-one that this plan failed, but this was due to the hunger of a hangover, not the quality of the breakfast, which was decidedly average. Actually, the bacon was quite good, but I wasn't feeling charitable. This is why: overcooked scrambled egg on dry bread that had never known the touch of butter. Lonely strips of smoked salmon huddled in the shadow of tasteless tomatoes beyond even the help of salt. An utterly pointless dusting of gritty herbs around the edge of the plate. Tinned pineapple in the "fresh" fruit salad. And a bill just shy of £30. Oh, the wanton abuse of innocents too terrified by interest rates to notice what's on their forks. But the atmosphere was oddly upbeat. The sun seemed to remind everyone of a time when they didn't know what subsidence was. Even Papa Lade, feeling sick, with HP on his nose, looked surprisingly loveable. The Gate, I realised, has its charms. But food is not one of them.

Starbucks, Anywhere

Starbucks
Anywhere

by H.P. Seuss

I fucking love Starbucks. Say it proud! I fucking love Starbucks and what they have done to coffee drinking in this country. It's fucking great.

Gone are the days of tepid brown piss in a cup. Gone are the days of Nescafé. Fling open that door. Bowl up to the counter. Say: "Get me a venti extra-hot soya milk toffee-nut latte, no cream, extra sprinkles". Say it with conviction and say it with pride. Don't obfuscate. Don't pretend you don't understand the ordering system. Don't be all bashful and go "I just want a cup of coffee". (If you just want a cup of kawffee, you schmuck, you have two choices: filter or Americano. Don't say you don't know what filter coffee is. Americano is espresso plus however much hot water you ask for, you complete dickhead. If you're so offended by global captialism in action, ask for fair-trade coffee. Your friendly barista will be happy to oblige, you lily-livered liberal gimp).

Don't give me that jive about the nice Italian café round the corner. They had it coming. Go to Starbucks instead. Better still go to Starbucks in Borders. Don't give me that jazz about that charming second-hand book store across the street, either. Go to Borders, take whatever magazines you want off the shelves - Heat, Horse & Hound, Home Pornographer, I don't give a shit - and take them all to the in-store Starbucks, where you can peruse them to your heart's content for the price of an eggnog frappuccino. Fetch some books. Bone up on free markets. Read a poem. Meet a friend. Share a skinny choc-chip muffin. Dust it with nutmeg. Buy a pouch of House Blend to brew at home. Plug in your laptop. Turn Starbucks into your office - rent: one latte every two hours. Just don't, whatever you do, order the egg and bacon roll. It tastes like shit.

Special Dispatch: The Breakfasts of Oxford (Part 2: The Rose Tea Rooms, Jericho Café, Queen's Lane Coffee House)

The Rose Tea Rooms
51 High Street
Oxford
OX1
01865 244429

Jericho Café
112 Walton Street
Oxford
OX2
01865 310840

Queen's Lane Coffee House
40 High Street
Oxford
OX1
01865 240082

by H.P. Seuss

"Lawks a Mercy!" I cried about waking. For it was late! "Hasten yourself, My Lady," I said, "it is nearly noon."

But whether through her natural langour or a mischievous desire to fluster me, My Lady did not hasten herself. She toiled over her toilet; she dithered over dressing; she would not be abduced from her ablutions. I was champing to go! And was suffering forty seven minutes later when we left for the Grand Café and My Lady impertinently and seriously suggested that I ought to congratulate her on the speed of her dressing.

Ah, the Grand Café! It has the aspect of a Viennese coffee-house: brassy, elegant and expensive enough to keep out the rubbish. We like their cakes, we like their teas, and I have had my eye on their breakfast menu for a long time. We burst in on the golden scene, whereupon the doorman regretted to inform us that breakfast was no longer being served. The door-chime tinkled mockingly in the hollow of my headache as we moped out.

I was upset. However, My Lady, observing my fallen crest, suggested we sally to the Rose, where, with any luck they would still be serving breakfast at a quarter past twelve, and if not, they do a very servicable omelette on the luncheon menu. We had no such luck (I even brandished Mr Eggs' letter of introduction - nothing doing). We plumped for the omelette.

My Lady is as good as her word and her word is good; my "brunch" was suitably eggy and, at my behest, bacony and mushroomy. Service was not strong; three Slav flapped ineffectually around seven tables. The coffee was good. But so-so, in all. "My Lady", I said, as she wiped a chive from my chin, "tomorrow we are up with the lark".

But blow me if the same precidament didn't befall us the very next morning. The Grand Café again tinkled a "no". But it's only one minute past noon! "Even so". A little death.

But I had a brainwave. I led My Lady past the noon cut-off joints to Jericho, where the doughty owner of the eponymous café responded to my query emphatically: "Why wouldn't we be serving breakfast?" Quite so! A full plate (vigorous sausage, fascinating beans) was downed in a happy hubbub. Jericho Café is, I remembered from my student days, a marvel: always festively busy, yet always obliging with a cosy cranny.

No time for fry the following morning - My Lady and I had to dash for the London stagecoach. Queen's Lane Coffee House, however, obliged me with two slices of Marmite on toast which were so delicious that I was inspired to purchase the same in London, and was disappointed. Will I commend QLCH on the basis of their Marmite? Emphatically yes. It was only My Lady's peculiar prejudice against the admittedly rather studenty place that kept us thence the day before, actually.

In sum, breakfast (like education) in Oxford is high-quality, though inaccessible. It is a city of frustrations and rewards. It is also, as I remarked to My Lady on the Hackney turnpike, pondering the Grand Café, a city of unfinished business.

To be continued...?

The Uplands Cafe, East Dulwich

The Uplands Cafe
21 Upland Road
East Dulwich
SE22
020 8693 3948

by Tina Beans

There is nothing quite like being caught in the crossfire of a bar brawl to make a girl need a hearty breakfast. After all, it’s not every Friday night that two grown men decide to fall on your head mid-fight. Waking up a bit dazed, I made my way to the Upland Cafe in an attempt to cleanse my soul and fill my belly. This cafe has had a revamp in recent times and it would be hard to describe here the full oddity of the previous establishment, then called Café Ideal. I’m no psychic, but the vibes were definitely all wrong.

It is now a bright and airy place, with very friendly and welcoming staff. A nice man took our order using an impressive breakfast shorthand – BWD anyone? I could feel my strength slowly returning as we sat down to wait.

Already encouraged by the quality of the condiments (they were Heinz and HP), I was happy to receive buttery fresh mushrooms and a perfectly cooked egg. The bacon was crispy as requested, the pieces generous. But what made this breakfast great was the sausage, my favourite breakfast ingredient. Well cooked, this banger was herby – but not in a poncey way. Which sums it up, really – if you’re sick of dressed up, bourgeois breakfasts that don’t deliver then you will like this place. You won’t find herbs in your scrambled eggs, but you will find all the expected cooked well. Oh, and if you really are too battered from the night before, they do anything you like to take away.

Finally, seeing the aforementioned nice man hand out free lollypops to all the kids in the cafe restored my faith in human kindness after the previous night’s unnecessary violence. And what more could you want from a breakfast outing than that?

Special Dispatch: The Breakfasts of Oxford (Part 1: Quod, Old Parsonage, Malmaison)

Quod
Old Bank Hotel
92-94 High Street
Oxford
OX1
01865 202 505

Old Parsonage
1 Banbury Road
Oxford
OX2
01865 310 210

Malmaison
3 Oxford Castle
Oxford
OX1
01865 268 400

by H.P. Seuss

Dusk blackened into night as we crossed the turnpike on the Oxford Road, My Lady and I, and lurched into that sweet city with her dreaming spires for the first stage of our breakfast tour. A thin mist whispered down High-street, the stillness of the scene rent only by the gay cries of romping scholars. We alighted at the Old Bank. I presented Malcolm Eggs' letter of introduction and nimble footmen sprang to relieve us of our luggage and usher us to our lodgings.

We slept soundly.

Upon waking next morning about daylight, I flung open our window to be greeted by the bracing sight of Radcliffe's Camera, Bodelian's Library and All Souls college thrusting their erect turrets into the blue of the blushing sky. That first speech of old Prof. Neuss returned to me. "Seuss", said he, pink of cheek, wide of eye, "I should like to prise apart the buttocks of your ignorance and roger you with my knob of knowledge". I was a shy milquetoast then! I attempted to convey my exuberance to My Lady with a similar metaphor; she kneed me in the balls.

Breakfast was, nonetheless, a happy affair. In the cavernous, contemporary space of the Quod Brasserie (venue of choice for hungry under-grads cadging a steak-frites off visiting parents), we enjoyed an upmarket English assembly. The blood pudding was nicely pungent; the mushrooms had thrived on the chargrill; so endearing were the bacon and sausage that I fancied Mr Gloucester Old Spot (whence they came) was a dear old friend. My Lady, who like the Hindoo forgoes meat, was in raptures over her tomatoes. The coffee was rich and the orange juice fresh. Breakfast here is dear, but like My Lady, worth it.

After an agreeable day of gentle study and bracing walks, we repaired to the Old Parsonage. I know, reader, that you tire of these "sub-literary" linking bits, so I shall cut to the quick. The breakfast menu is the same as at Quod, though the country hotel décor presents a mellow contrast: wood fire, oils, a stuffed pike &c, &c. The company, too differs: we shared the room with an antique mystery lady, who read the Financial Times with a magnifying glass. We enjoyed fresh berries and muesli from the Continental table before My Lady delved into creamy scrambled eggs and tomatoes, and I busied myself with robust poached eggs and Mr Old Spot's hind quarters.

I was most impressed, incidentally, with the "can do" spirit of the head waiter when I alarmed him with a request for Soya milk. On such application are Empires founded.

We took our breakfast no. 3 at Malmaison, a converted gaol in the grounds of the ancient Oxford Castle. All is shiny and sensual, comfortable and contemporary. The eggs benedict was a decadent treat, while service was professional and personable. However, more consistency in the Continental spread would have been appreciated. Rye bread: good. Preponderance of pineapple among the fresh fruit: bad. Tropical fruit is very discombobulating first thing, as I found out to my peril later in the day.

To be continued...

Broadway Cafe, Hackney

Broadway Cafe
58 Broadway Market
Hackney
E8
020 7684 1651

By Des Ayuno

The fact that your correspondent lives only metres from Broadway Cafe failed to make it a more appealing venue for a recent Saturday breakfast than bed (set menu: Berocca and extra-strength painkillers). Nevertheless, Joel the chef dragged me out, delivering a rousing speech about endurance and fortitude with the sincerity that only a man accustomed to 5am encounters with an industrial freezer-full of economy sausages could muster.

We’d long admired its window-dressing of neon starburst signs advertising over-apostrophed creations. A delicate tummy and suspicion of the quality of meat on offer (“Sausage Roll’s 70p”) left me with cowardly egg's and bean's on two toast's. But Joel’s bounteous plate contained virtually every breakfast item known to humanity, piled into a pyramid on an enormous foundation of bubble. Thick, smoky bacon, crispy-soft black pudding and tomatoes grilled to the point of collapse jostled for space with a pair of fried eggs blessed with yolks so pert and wobbly they could have starred in that Sun ad off the telly. With the exception of the long, skinny, orange Franken-sausages, each element was a model of its type. Plus, in a carbohydrate explosion, he got toast, white crusty bread, chips, hash browns and a fried slice.

The chef’s exacting standards were more than met. The super-strong tea alone made my visit worthwhile. The clientele included four paint-covered blokes with not much hair, a Dot Cotton-alike lighting a fag with a shaky hand, a quiet thirtysomething perusing his vinyl purchases, an organic vegetable-laden, Camper-shod young couple with baby, and us. We ignored our mild discomfort at being part of the latter, gentrifying party, rather than the former, local one, and ordered more tea. And after all the weather was ideal. We could not have had a more perfect day for breakfast if we had ordered it.

The Blue Brick Cafe, East Dulwich

The Blue Brick Cafe
14 Fellbrigg Rd
East Dulwich
SE22
020 8693 3742

by Herby Banger

Skiving off work is an art form and preparation is foremost. The day before the bunk you must start showing the symptoms that will tomorrow lay you low; a slight cough, maybe a complaint of a headache. If you convince, then phoning in the next morning will be a breeze of well-wishing reassurance. It will relax your every sinew. For me, everything was going according to plan as I hung up the phone. Yet my guilty tranquillity was disturbed not two minutes later by the arrival of builders to the flat above me.

It wasn't too long before I had a real headache and all I could do was leave the house, aghast that I had risked so much for so little reward. Aimlessly I walked the streets around my home, and came to an unexpected crossroads in the day: for before me was a mirage, a long lost image of a café that had occupied my unconscious mind for many years; The Blue Brick Café.

It had always seemed closed, but here now it welcomed me in with its 3-barred glow of electric heat. Inside I was transformed, not into a phoenix, but into a child of the person that I had become. The Blue Brick Café is everything I had missed from a time I had barely known. I had never been there before but the placed seeped memories and nostalgia, of rainy days and unexpected encounters. It is kitsch in a way that no other place can be, for it is unchanged and unerringly charming – comfort on an uncomfortable seat.

It is almost irrelevant that the breakfast I ate was beautiful and simple. No frills were necessary, yet to my delight there were unmistakable signs of real home made effort.

Friendly and honest, now that it is found I shall not stray from the path again.

Jocks Café, Acton

Jocks Café
152 Horn Lane
Acton
W3
020 8993 4456

by Chris P Bacon

A continental strumpet berates her nauseating child in the doorway, obstructing my entry. An elderly man, possibly centuries old, converses with a teenage builder about the state of British politics. Tea-soaked newspapers lie strewn across formica table surfaces, the fug of cigarette smoke hangs heavy in the still air. The atmosphere bodes well. This is a local greasy spoon, for local people, and it doesn't disappoint.

Tea and toast is presented in the correct manner i.e. as soon as possible after one's arrival (in order to stem the liver's rapid acceleration toward purgatory). A generously-sized platter is presented soon after, consisting of two eggs, two sausages (split and fried), bacon, beans and hash browns. Black pudding is offered, but refused. Whilst being a traditional part of the English breakfast offer, there are times when a blood-soaked, phallic tube of gristle is best avoided, and this is one of them.

The eggs are cooked to perfection – runny yolks but confident whites. The thick slices of bacon are lovingly fried; the beans and hash browns are average, but the sausages sublime. Toast is simple, liberally spread with butter, and the tea is splendid. Moreover, it is presented in a lovely warm mug, rather than the polystyrene monstrosities that so many "cafes" use these days.

Considering that all this comes in at less than five pounds, this café is something of a gastronomic revolution. The food, the atmosphere, the roar of the greasepaint and the smell of the crowd. It's all here, in abundance.

Bleeding Heart Tavern, Clerkenwell

Bleeding Heart Tavern
Bleeding Heart Yard
off Greville Street
Farringdon
EC1N
020 7242 2056/8238

by Mama Lade

Why should weekends have all the breakfast fun? Preparing to do battle with Wednesday, that's when you really need the nutritional armour - and it's so soothing to consider, as you sculpt castles in your kedgeree, that others are hard at work. The Bleeding Heart Tavern opens at 7:00, so you could be at your desk by 8:30, but where's the schadenfreude in that? Papa Lade and I sedately took our seats at 9:00. The window framed a Lowry-like scene of scurrying workers, miserably scarfing breakfast bars and cardboard coffee. Watching them only sharpened our need for good food to insulate us from a bad world.

The menu was encouraging, the atmosphere pleasantly casual. The service in fact was so casual it frequently bordered on vague...but somehow the lack of slickness was appealing and when my haddock arrived and the toast was soggied by inadequately drained poaching liquid, it really didn't matter. It felt homely. And the vast, smoky fish was perfectly cooked, complemented by a plump poached egg and lashings of thick, no-nonsense hollandaise. His lordship had the full English: Suffolk bacon, spanking good sausages, two pretty fried eggs, brown toast, grilled tomatoes, mushrooms, addictive fried potatoes. The one quibble was "our very special home-made baked beans". Tasty, but all wrong. Breakfast demands the gloopy goodness of non-special baked beans made by machines. Anything more sophisticated misses the point. That aside, our breakfast worked. We were fortified, ready to face the worst. Even the posse of industrious Lowry-ites, polluting the best meal of the day with a "meeting" at the table next to us, could not spoil our mood.

Pret a Manger, Somewhere or Other

Pret a Manger
Somewhere or Other
PR8 MNJ
www.pret.com

by Poppy Tartt

Straight off the streets of chaos and no pity, the clientele of Pret a Manger are damp around the ankles, queuing for a breakfast, one hope, one quest. Word on those streets is Pret now offers a breakfast wrap. MCs better start chatting about what’s really happening and I ain’t even talking about the weather; I think I’ve made my feelings clear about wraps in the past. I’m clocking my options in the glass case: greasy croissants rammed with ham and tomatoes, breakfast baguettes, the breakfast wrap. The strangest things can happen from wrapping. It looks like a crushed wet napkin. It’s got beans in: nuff said, surely. Beans always want to escape, like kids off an council estate; 'fuck that, I’ve got my sleeves to think of' I’m shouting at the perky foreigner who’s serving me. ‘Would you like a napkin with that?’ she hits back. I skulk off to a distant stool with my bacon and egg baguette. My palms are sweaty and these weak arms are heavy, now I’m guzzling on coffee just to keep my head straight; don’t buy tea at Pret, it’s rubbish. Pret’s plotting for a title like Eat, who’s competing. Both go easy on the coffee heavy on the foam so your cup’s light as you like, careful you don’t lose your grip and leave a stain on a businessman’s suit. The breakfast baguette is hard to remember, like a dream. Too much garlic leads to a confused state, my buds fail to return a unanimous verdict on taste. Some kid’s gone crazy with the salt and pepper shakers, thank god I bought a yoghurt for later.

Euston Sandwich Bar, Fitzrovia

Euston Sandwich Bar
370 Euston Road
Fitzrovia
NW1
020 7387 5538

by Blake Pudding

“She’s Portuguese.”

“She’s Polish.”

“She’s Portuguese, look they sell those delicious custard tarts.”

“Everywhere sells those now. They are delicious though, aren’t they?”

“I’m positive she’s Portuguese.”

“Barbara,” I called out. “Are you Polish or Portuguese?”

“I’m Polish,” Barbara said, looking offended. “The Portuguese are a miserable bunch, though they do make those delicious custard tarts - I love them.”

We were sitting at the best table in the Euston Sandwich Bar opposite Great Portland Street Station. It was the kind of table Michael Winner would insist on were he to frequent this august establishment. I was with top London publisher, Henry Jeffreys. When he suggested a breakfast meeting, I thought he was going to choose some ghastly Soho media venue so was pleasantly surprised when he picked this place.

“Gentlemen?” Barbara hovered imperiously.

We both went for bacon, egg and chips with tea of course and without beans, which we both consider a ridiculous throwback to a time when you couldn’t buy fresh vegetables and everything came in tins. Need I say that the food was superb? The chips were of the thin cut variety and, I mean this as high compliment, better than those in McDonald’s. The bacon was elegantly crisped and the eggs were pink, pert and runny.

Henry then held forth rather aimlessly on bookish topics such as “wither the high street retailer”, but to be honest I wasn’t listening. Instead I admired the feast in Formica that is the Euston Sandwich Bar and basked in a reverie of satiety so different from the continental mania one gets from coffee and custard tarts.

Nico's Restaurant, Bethnal Green

Nico's Restaurant
299 Cambridge Heath Rd
Bethnal Green
E2
020 7739 8832

by Blake Pudding

I woke up with the word "leadership" on my lips. Perhaps it was to do with the meandering my life had taken of late or perhaps it is something to do with the Duke of Wellington, whose boots are never far from my feet. I had been at a fashion party the night before trying to think of the Estonian for "does your father know you're here?" I roused my brother Thomas and suggested a trip to Nico's.

First impressions were good. There were big sheets of bright cardboard cut into Batman-esque "ker-powww" shapes but with "Sausage, egg and chips £3.49" or "Steak pie, chips and beans £4.49" instead. There was a bald cockney behind the counter- he didn't have a badge on saying Nico because there was no need - this was clearly Nico and he was clearly in charge. From that moment on I knew we were in safe hands.

I went off-piste with the fried eggs, bubble, bacon, tomatoes, tea and toast. I forget what Thomas had. Wellington said that an army marches on its stomach but I doubt anyone could march after this amount. There was a mountain of delicious bubble under which I kept on finding more and more rashers of bacon. There were two eggs and no less than 3 big tomatoes grilled to a sweet gooey consistency. The tea came from a pot and the bread was crusty.

After finishing I smiled at Thomas much as Wellington must have smiled at Blucher after Waterloo, a smile that spoke of a job well done. Then a set breakfast of leviathan-like proportions came past and I realised how paltry our victory had been. Meanwhile as Nico was marshalling his forces in the kitchen, it dawned on me that the only losers here were lovers of uncluttered miltary metaphors.

Little Mo's Cafe, Deptford

Little Mo’s Cafe
219 Deptford High Street
Deptford
SE8
020 8692 5177

by Des Ayuno

Little Mo’s is definitely at the wrong end of the high street – away from the temptations of Deptford Market; away from the vintage clothing shop that seems to think it’s in W8, not SE8; away from the Salvation Army, where clusters of creatively coiffed students clog the doorway. Little Mo’s is actually Little Mo, announced on its tatty facade in a bright red, bizarrely Wild West-style font. In the dusty front window a stack of broken furniture is topped with an enormous, shrivelled jade plant. There is a fruit machine, and a loo that is so nearly an outdoor toilet as to surely require EU-legislated demolition. The only other customer that chilly morning was a gentleman nursing a cuppa who had parked his shopping cart, full of overstuffed plastic bags and odd textiles, and his two walking sticks (one broken), directly in the doorway. In short, it is such a black hole of unremitting, empty-eyed misery that it probably inspired the EastEnders character of the same name.

I went for the safe option of eggs, mushrooms and beans on toast; my companion (a devoted admirer of the place) ordered something that sounded like “the big pork breakfast” with wild enthusiasm. His most persuasive entreaties did not convince me to try the pink sausages nor grey bacon, both of which he pronounced heavenly. My meal was serviceable. The food was beside the point. I shall return on a rainy day in November, possibly after the death of a distant family member or pet, to wallow in dejection and self-pity – and I shall thoroughly enjoy it.

Evin Cafe Bar, Dalston

Evin Cafe Bar
115 Kingsland High St
Dalston
E8
020 7254 5634

by Orva Easy

I wondered, and I wonder still, whether I had emerged into a Sliding Doors situation. On one side of the table, a splendid spread of fresh, carefully presented deliciousness; on the other, a listless, unsatisfying plate of less-than-inspired produce, ill-wrought into something resembling a breakfast, apart from the glaring absence of an egg.

"There it is!" the waitress exclaimed, pointing excitedly to where my hitherto truant egg was emerging from the kitchen, carried aloft on its own saucer. Compelled to enquire politely as to its whereabouts, I had become quite cross. Her childish joy at discovering the reluctant foodstuff, however, dented my ill will, and I returned to my breakfast uncomplaining. This despite the fact that the egg had apparently been cooked by someone who had never eaten one, the sausage was of indeterminate origin, though it might have served as an acceptable weapon and the bacon was more like biltong. The buttering of the toast can only be described as eccentric.

"There you go, and some halloumi for you to try," the waitress smiled indulgently at the visiting Icelanders, who peered in wonderment at this strange and new foodstuff. Unused as they are to exotic or indeed fresh food, rapture followed as they hoed their way through the Mediterranean breakfasts - the feta salty and creamy; the yoghurt (or YO-ghurt as they insist on calling it) perfectly paired with clear, runny honey; the hefty garlic sausage chargrilled to perfection and the halloumi (a revelation!) amusingly squeaky. The coffee was pronounced excellent, and since they have to stay awake through eternal night for half of the year they know something about it.

If you like a bit of the Med on your breakfast plate, this place is a winner. Otherwise, you'll have egg on your face. If you're lucky.

Café Bohemia, Hackney

Café Bohemia
2 Bohemia Place
Mare Street
Hackney
E8
0208 986 4325

by Cathy Latte

That long stretch of Mare Street can feel mightily oppressive. As you pass those big grey buildings it’s as if one by one they’re uprooting themselves out of their sockets, up onto your shoulders. Sirens rip through your nerves, dirt congeals on your shoes – you’re unsettled.

However, the distant vision of Mess café can always raise dwindling post-inebriated spirits, and seeing it ahead we two picked up pace. 20 metres on, my jaw slackened: the breakfast queue was out the door and ten people deep. Overcoming the need to fling myself to the pavement and beat the ground in despair I regained composure, muddled a decision and walked back to the best and nearest option I could think of: Bohemia, where I had been once before.

Bohemia should be great, tucked pleasantly away under a railway arch. Its big open door windows spill light everywhere, while trains rumble comfortingly above. But once inside I was met with a familiar wave of unease, like returning to a relationship that was disappointing first time round and finding that nothing has changed. Sure, the idiosyncrasies are still charming; their odd taste in music, their slapdash approach, and they do make a good cuppa. But something’s just not right.

I flinched as I watched the long, worrying sausage delivered to the table ahead and tried to steady my trembling hand. When our food eventually showed my toast was white, not brown, the tomato a no-show, and the greasy mushrooms contenders for the National Trust’s ‘ugliest vegetable’ competition. His bacon appeared thick as gammon, our eggs the wrong way round. The pitiful reason? That poached are made on the other side of the kitchen to everything else. Beaten and soiled, we could do nothing but pay our bill and limp back off into the bleak Hackney day.

Yo! Sushi, Gatwick Airport

Yo! Sushi
North Terminal Airside
Gatwick Airport
West Sussex
RH6
01293 602 070
www.yosushi.com

by Hashley Brown

Fast, fun, fresh breakfast. Not a bad slogan for the holy meal, although I'd probably take issue with speed being an integral part of the breakfasting canon. And some may say that putting a box of Coco Pops on a conveyor belt is pushing the fun definition a little too far. But as one who has grown weary of below par airport breakfasting, I thought I'd take Yo! Sushi at their word.

Now when leaving Tokyo, I always take the opportunity to partake of one more steaming bowl of ramen noodles, some pork dumplings and a glass of beer, especially if at breakfast time. Yo! Sushi, who are in danger of re-branding Japanese cuisine for the English until it resembles pub food on a conveyor belt, couldn't quite help me there, and at first glance this seemed to be no more than revolving cereals for sale. Fresh fruit, some pancakes, all whizzed past my saddening eyes, until I met the offer of a hot Japanese breakfast.

Component parts of the 'Full Nippon' include grilled fish, hot rice, some pickles and a bowl of miso soup. At best this is an elegantly simple way to start the day, at worst a grease free belly filler, and Yo! Sushi's efforts fell somewhere in between. Good rice, excellent miso soup, and a tasty piece of salmon that in an effort to be more 'fun!' had been liberally and unnecessarily smeared with a spicy marinade. More effort with the pickles would have been welcomed and the inclusion of a salad that was so lifeless it looked like it had been grilled with the fish, only served to strengthen my feeling that British airport restaurants don't actually care what they serve their customers.

But walking away I felt full and content, and for only £5 I didn't feel cheated either. Nice try Yo! Sushi, but maybe Breakfast! doesn't need that extra exclamation mark.

Coffee Cake, Finsbury Park

Coffee Cake
4 Blackstock Road
Finsbury Park
N4
020 7704 3100

by H.P. Seuss

Opened: 9am, Tuesday 19 September, 2006

Sun sign: Virgo

You are the Zodiac's virgin maiden, clean and white, unsullied and unassuming. You are helpless, eager and obliging, hoping to spread goodness through sweetness. You belong to the 6th astrological house: that of service. "Bite me" you say, giggling, "and protect me", fixing the gaze.

You are an elemental feminine force, offering sensual comfort: frangipan cakes and custard tarts, quiches and focaccia, eggs and muesli of a morning. Your ruling planet, Mercury, speaks of a strong mind/body connection; your ingredients are well-sourced. You are fair and so are your prices.

Poppy Tartt, a freshwater Pisces, found her croissant too salty. H.P. Seuss, a saltwater Cancer, found his eggs more muddled than scrambled, his mushrooms bland, but his sourdough wonderful. Virgo is more baker than chef. A plum and rhubarb tartlet was a stolen kiss.

You are fussy and fastidious. There is a certain snobbery in you, a judgement of your customer which will irritate him, even as you collapse into his arms. You fall easily into hero worship, unconsciously modelling yourself on men you look up to. The City and Islington College, the fine modernist cube up the road, hasn't failed to notice your imitation of his bold, sleek whiteness. Curves would be more becoming. Your fridge buzzes ever so loudly. You are a bit annoying.

Virgo's unplucked status may leave her permanently frustrated. Only in a truly loving relationship will you fulfill your earth mother potential. In your eagerness to please, you often make unsuitable choices. You hope your Ottolenghi-style elegance will raise the tone of garbage-strewn Finsbury Park. Beware cruel, dirty men who will take your cakes and leave, or worse, walk on by, oblivious.

The Pineapple, Kentish Town

The Pineapple
51 Leverton St
Kentish Town
NW5

by Hashley Brown

How often do I wake up with a throbbing head and a deep-seated unnatural need to eat? How often then does that need translate into dithering, mind-numbing indecision as to where to find fulfillment? And how often then does the Pineapple appear on my list of possible venues? Always.

It feels a bit naughty. It's a pub you see and they don't really do breakfast. They don't even do coffee, but they do serve a great ham, egg and chips, and in my book that's a meal with a pork and egg ratio of an incontrovertible breakfasty nature.

The tale of the Pineapple is one of lore, and one that I can never quite remember. It involves it being a great pub that was about to be butchered into flats and then was saved by some famous Primrose Hill types standing proud amongst the disaffected locals, and so it stayed a pub that stayed great.

They have a pretty beer garden, lots of old rickety furniture and an enormous collection of pineapple-shaped stuff. In fact the only place there wasn't a pineapple was on top of my thick moist slice of hot gammon ham. But what was there instead was a lovely fried egg surrounded by hot crispy chips. The leaf salad that came with it reminded us that as it was 2pm it was probably officially lunch (although I'd argue that breakfast is a state of mind) and the lack of a coffee machine means the tendency to accompany this ham with a bloody mary is exponentially increased. But then again, I'd argue that on a sunny Sunday that's not such a bad thing either.

Acoustic Cafe, Newington Green

Acoustic Cafe
Denver Road
Newington Green
N16 5JH

by H.P. Seuss

"Now, miliy moi", said Peshka, proferring two clenched fists, "which is it to be?"

The café was pale amber, with a Mediterranean air and a mercifully unfulfilled promise of live music. It reminded Peshka of Aleppo, site of his famous Philidor rebuttal in '56. He insisted that I wheel him outdoors to take the plein air, though there was not, in truth, a great deal of air to take on that bright white day.

I nodded at his right hand, which revealed an ivory pawn. "White you are", he said, his legs twitching under a tartan shroud.

A waitress hovered. Knight took coffee; king took tea ("black or white?" — indeed!). Both took Full English. Time took toll. We launched into a perfunctory 1) e4 e5, 2) Nf3 d6, 3) Bc4 Nf6? 4) Ng4!

The waitress shimmered back with our plates. The mushrooms were pawns, weak and many, nimble supporters of bishop bacon and knight banger. The bread was queen, precious and everywhere. The egg was a poached king, fresh and kindly. The beans, sequestered in a separate dish (have the chefs of N16 taken the hint?), were fragrant rooks, key endgame players. The tomato was a draughtsman, a boy in a game of men. The whole was quirky but satisfying.

Play continued: 4)... d5 (the tempo was mine) 5) exd5 Bc5 (prompting a Queen's side castle from me later) and 6) b3 (for the fianchetto). We exchanged queens. My bishop held his king in a mortal grip. I feared for faded Peshka, who sighed throughout, reminiscing about the Baden-Baden bienniale of '37, site of his infamous Gambian gambit.

But just as I was mopping up the endgame, Peshka sprung a trap so fiendishly intricate, so perfectly simple, I nearly choked on my knight. Bean took bacon, mushrooms were outflanked, my egg was swamped. "Checkmate", said Peshka.

I looked up — and he was gone.

The Pancake Café, Bloomsbury

The Pancake Café
28 Museum Street
Bloomsbury
WC1A
020 7636 2383

by Vita Bicks

Bloomsbury smiled in the balmy September sunshine as we took our seats on the pavement outside the Pancake Café, filled with the benevolent optimism that only a sunny Saturday morning can bring. We settled on spinach and cheese pancakes for me, bacon and apple for Mr Bicks, and scrambled eggs on toast for our charming companion, who knows what she likes and likes what she knows. Our choices made, I went up to order, and that was when the problems began.

“Two coffees, please,” I opened.
“Tea?” asked the man behind the counter.
“Coffee,” I replied.
“Cappuccino?”
“Just filter coffee, please.”
“Cappuccino?”
“Filter coffee.”
“Latte?”

And so we continued, until he threw me off the scent entirely with an offer of beer. At 11am. Beaten, I retreated to my seat and hoped for the best.

The food, when it came, was equally odd. The pancakes, crispy and frangible, resembled nothing so much as poppadoms. Mr Bicks’s apple appeared in the form of uncooked slices, while the top of his pancake was, in a moment of truly cherishable strangeness, buttered. The only problem with our companion’s scrambled eggs was the fact that they were, unequivocally, an omelette. Salt and pepper, delivered to our table on request, turned out to be pepper and pepper. I began to wonder if I was dreaming.

The food at the Pancake Café wasn’t awful, exactly; it was just… peculiar. The celebrated bon vivant Sir Clement Freud once famously remarked that, “breakfast is a notoriously difficult meal to serve with a flourish”. Were it not impossible to imagine him partaking in such unaccredited fare, one would be tempted to assume that here was where his moment of insight had occurred.

Ponti's, Stansted Airport

Ponti's
Landside Concourse
Stansted Airport
Essex
CM24
01279 664098
www.pontis.co.uk

by Hashley Brown

Skulking on the outskirts of our great metropolis, Stansted Airport stands as a throbbing beacon to mediocrity. Spiritual home to the cut-price airlines who have single handedly robbed international travel of the last vestiges of mystery and panache, it embodies at all times of day the desperate unhappy masses - queuing, delayed, hungry.

So it was that on a bright Sunday Morning I found myself betwixt Hibernia and Scandinavia ensconced in Stansted's cavernous interior. Hopes are never high when in transit as airport catering has become synonymous with over-priced rubbish, but a glimmer of hope flickered when i saw the familiar Ponti's logo. Not haute cuisine but readers will no doubt be familiar with the 24-hour sausage sandwich potential this chain of Italianate Cafés offers to the East End nocturnal reveller.

Yet how cruel the Gods. From the self service line-up to the final half-finished meal this was deeply upsetting. Aside from the sizeable herby cumberland that divided my plate like a porcine meridian, I had queued up for, splashed out on and emotionally invested in sub-standard canteen food. The scrambled eggs resembled the humble oeuf in name only, the mushrooms were so watery that there was a synchronicity in their swimming, and the bacon? Well it was just cold, because I had to queue for so long to pay for it.

I fear, dear reader, that the airports are taking us for fools. Perhaps it's time for flyers to demand fair fayre.

Starvin' Marvin's, Greenford

Starvin’ Marvin’s
BP Service Station
Central Parade
Western Ave
Greenford
UB6
020 8998 5132
www.starvinmarvins.co.uk

by Poppy Tartt

According to legend, a tornado swept across Kentucky fifty years ago, carrying off the state’s homesteads and restaurants. Luckily for the residents of Greenford, Ealing, a freakish gust carried one shiny aluminium train carriage of a diner clear across the Atlantic and dropped it, intact, just at the edge of the B452. Unfortunately the staff fell out somewhere over Ireland, but the owners managed to hire a few local girls, dressing them in impolitely tight black trousers and advising them to consider each order as carefully as if it was a GCSE exam question.

Authentic American diner Starvin’ Marvin’s is, according to their motto, ‘not just a diner, but a way of life’. The first booth we were shown to had one seat so squishy it might actually have been padded with American pancakes. This is going too far, I thought.

As you might expect, we ate the American breakfast: two eggs, two pancakes, bacon and maple syrup. The portions were small enough to justify their confiscation under the un-American Patriot Act, but we later came to believe that excess is the mother of regret. The bacon was the grey, overly curly kind that looks as if it has been grated from the pig with a giant pencil sharpener and picked up off the sty floor some time later. Still, it all tasted all right – even if the cook had translated ‘over-easy’ as ‘over-pretty-tricky-actually’, as in, turn the eggs over, do some tough algebraic equations on a chalkboard provided for the purpose, then take them out. And it’s my belief that the cook was not a mathematician.

Kentucky is a long way from Greenford, Ealing, but then so is Hackney. Long journeys can diminish destinations unfairly. By the way, the bit about the tornado was a lie.

Fifteen, Shoreditch

Fifteen
15 Westland Place
Shoreditch
N1
0871 330 1515
www.fifteenrestaurant.com

by Yolko Ono

This was my second visit to the wooden and faintly rustic domain of Jamie Oliver. I steamed in late and was ushered in by a chummy waiter. Numerous staff – both waiters and chefs - bustled around the open plan kitchen on the ground floor, giving it a vibrant but not hectic buzz. Apparently Fifteen’s profits go towards taking on 30 unemployed youngsters every year to train as “the next generation of chefs”.

My coffee, although served in charming crockery, was both too hot and stronger than Andre the Giant. As for my Full Monty, it consisted of tasty but slightly overcooked Cumberlands, sweet cured and perfectly fried bacon, organic fried eggs that were not too googy and not too firm, black pudding which I poked timidly but found a tad threatening for my foggy morning, chunky mushrooms that looked great but were ultimately uninspiring, and deep crimson Isle of Wight tomatoes, which were juicy and deliciously sweet. One of my buddies had the Bubble and Squeak, which was a good-sized portion that she could happily wolf it down without feeling more like a blimp than a bubble. My other companion chose the veg brekky, which at £6.50 is more “pukka” for your pound: creamy scrambled eggs, those big mushies and succulent tomatoes on sourdough. If and when I get back there it’ll be the veg brekky that gets my vote.

It’s an enjoyable experience and I’ll admit the trimmings make it more so - the scented candle in the loo, the nice crockery, and the friendly but not overbearing staff, and of course the “love Jamie O xxx” on the base of every menu left me feeling all warm and fuzzy. Cause he really cares.

The Prince Regent, Herne Hill

The Prince Regent
69 Dulwich Road
Herne Hill
SE24
020 7274 1567

by Orva Easy

It was an unsettling morning. The weather could only be described as weird, possibly even spelled with a y. Humid, blustery winds buffeted us and made plastic bags and old newspapers dance wildly along the street. Dark clouds loomed but never made good on their threat. Everything looked yellowish, as though it had been lightly buttered. In other words, it was the kind of weather you get just before an alien invasion.

Reasoning that should said invasion occur we might not get another opportunity to fortify ourselves for a while, my companion and I made determinedly for the nearest breakfast establishment – in this case, the Prince Regent pub.

The menu, on a blackboard in the non-smoking, wood-clad dining room, was small but adequate. After one of those brief flirtations with the idea of eggs benedict, we settled on a full English for me and kedgeree for my adventurous companion, plus a rather nice bottle of Sauvignon de Touraine. The kedgeree was pleasant, but the curry level and generosity of fish (and indeed the colour, which was approaching pistachio) were found wanting. The traditional English was just that – juicy mushrooms, flavourful grilled tomato, a large and meaty, if not particularly memorable, sausage, piquant bacon and a slightly underdone egg. As requested, they held off a little on the beans. I found the hand-written addition of a 10% service charge rather impudent, especially since the service was fluid at best. As a polite English person, I would no doubt have left more otherwise. Fools.

One is hardly spoilt for choice, breakfastly-speaking, in this still not fully gentrified part of town, so the morning out-diner could reasonably venture here. But it is somewhat lacklustre and hardly a satisfactory coda to the end of the world as we know it.

Special Dispatch: Agora at The Copper Kettle, Cambridge

Agora at The Copper Kettle
4 Kings Parade
Cambridge
CB2

by Poppy Tartt

Ah, Cambridge. Little ornamental teapot of a town, sloshing full of the tealeaves of the future, a place where great minds hide inside mousy-looking women sporting fish plaits and unfashionable coats, and there is a preponderance of bicycles.

One morning I found myself here, visiting a great mind, or perhaps a great aunt, it's hard to recall. In my mouth my tongue lurked like a pumice stone. A gong was beaten, announcing the mistakes of the night before. I murmured "oh god"‚ repeatedly. As if my stomach hadn't been punished enough, my thoughts had turned to breakfast.

The Copper Kettle is not, as its quaint name might suggest, the historic site at which great literature incubated whilst a woman affectionately known as Dot served imperfect eggs to swaggering poets - though it does exhibit an emphatic range of copper kettles. It was once, I am told, a rather horrible canteen frequented by the elderly and certain students obsessed with the chic of rubbish places, but these days it has been buffed up and anaesthetised, like a granny on a holiday.

My breakfast was a battle, the site of a war between food and its faithless competitor and sometime lover, the hangover. In between routs I managed to enjoy a rare pair of sausages and bacon, lashings of bread and marmalade for afters. The unfortunate tomato, to which the grill had barely blown so much as a kiss, was jilted twice, and drowned.

Meanwhile a pair of Japanese tourists held hands earnestly above a roast dinner; two old ladies in their Sunday best bent very low over scones, whispering about the twenties, while a mysterious foreigner forked her way through a whole plate of scrambled eggs. In my teacup, the leaves of the future stuck ominously to the sides.

Ottolenghi, Islington

Ottolenghi
287 Upper Street
Islington
N1
020 7288 1454

by Phil English

The ravening hunger in my stomach is replaced by a sinking feeling. Peering past the meringue ziggurat in Ottolenghi's window display it appears that the only available seats are at the long communal table between two battalions of doting mummies and daddies and their offspring. I shouldn't really be surprised: Ottolenghi is Islington boiled down to its trendy-specked, buggy-wheeling, whole-grain quintessence. It is Upper Street's shrine to urban middle-class fecundity. With wacky furniture.

Fortunately, being a broad-minded sort of fellow (who is shown to a secluded table for two at the back of the restaurant out of range of regurgitated baby pap), I am able to give the food my full attention.

Gastronomically Ottolenghi is hard to fault. The menu was 100% orderable, offering a nice range from toast and pastries to heartier, eggier fare. My home-made baked beans with ham hock is a delicious and extremely generous quasi-cassoulet, which comes with an excellent fried egg perched atop a spicy round of black pudding. Eggs Benedict with blood orange hollandaise is silky, rich and citrusy. The eggs are poached à point, gushing with yolks the colour of Le Creuset cookware. The drinks are less impressive. Tea comes, bewilderingly, potless and in bag-form, while café latte is served in one of those tall glasses that are occasionally inflicted on the froth-hating anti-cappuccino brigade.

At the end (or rather the beginning) of the day, breakfast is about so much more than food. If you prefer the rustle of the newspaper to coochy-cooing before lunch then give Ottolenghi a wide berth. On the other hand, people who like this sort of thing, will love this sort of thing.

Mr Christian's, Islington

***MR CHRISTIAN'S HAS NOW CLOSED***

Mr Christian’s
20 Camden Passage
Islington
N1
020 7359 4103
www.mrchristians.co.uk

by Vita Bicks

Following a biblically overindulgent Saturday night, our Sunday breakfasting requirements were high. Happily, Islington offers the jaded celebrant a plethora of breakfasting venues of the sun-dried, knit-your-own-yoghurt variety. In a spirit of recklessness induced by lack of sleep, we threw parsimony to the wind and plumped for Mr Christian’s.

Mr C’s is primarily a delicatessen, and a very good one, selling fresh bread of every conceivable variety, a smorgasbord of toothsome cheeses and chocolate brownies of surpassing excellence. How could they go wrong with breakfast?

The answer, it transpired, was comprehensively. It took 40 minutes for our breakfasts to arrive, despite there only being about eight other diners. Fifteen minutes in, the waitress informed me that the Eggs Benedict were unavailable, the chef having “run out of hollandaise” (make some more, man!). Five minutes later, she was back again to tell me that my second choice of scrambled eggs, smoked salmon and a muffin was no-go as they were out of muffins - would toast do? In the event, the only thing that arrived promptly was the (substantial) bill.

This I could have overlooked, were the food itself not so profoundly, gobsmackingly terrible. The radioactively pink salmon was flavourless; the toast unbuttered and hilariously underdone. The egg was a fiesta of awfulness: it tasted of water, and ranged in consistency from runny mucus to a fist-sized lump I could balance on my fork. Mr Bicks’s eggs were, admittedly, perfectly poached, but his asparagus was tough and his bacon inedibly salty. My apple juice was vile; his tea stewed. Would that this unforgivable breakfast could fade from my memory as quickly as the hangover that unwittingly gave rise to it. We’d have been better off staying in bed with a bowl of Special K and a couple of paracetamol.

Special Dispatch: Mermaid Restaurant, Hastings

Mermaid Restaurant
2 Rock a Nore Road
Old Town
Hastings
TN34
01424 438100

by AA Grill

Saturday morning and hung-over in Hastings. We enter the packed Mermaid Restaurant and leap into some just-vacated seats behind the steamed-up windows, looking out onto the seafront. The Mermaid is a fish 'n' chip restaurant, and one of some repute at that (chalk boards with Telegraph quotes tell you so) and is sat just across the street from a fine array of friendly-looking fishmongers’ stalls. All this fishiness, then, poses a question: does breakfasting in such piscatorial surroundings compromise a breakfast?

But forgetting the food for a bit, this is a distinctly odd-looking crowd. Okay I’m being generous here. These people are ugly in the manner of a Victorian freakshow. It’s actually putting me off the idea of food. They are all stuffing their faces, however, with rather succulent, crispy-looking and outlandishly large servings of cod or haddock and chips. But I’ve always found fish and chips a decidedly post-meridian kind of dish, so it’s the breakfast menu all the way.

Alan and I both choose the 'Breakfast Special', while Fanny has the rather strange bedfellows of poached eggs (perfectly soft and gooey) and fried onions (rather unappetizingly oily) with mushrooms, and Diana chooses scrambled eggs on toast. The specials are certainly good value in a kilos per pound kind of way, the broad plates coming heaped with the usual breakfast fodder (and sprawling in a mass of beans that’s virtually making a break for the door). And toast. Now soaked with beans. Each of the servings is workmanlike – nothing’s missing except maybe a little soul. Or maybe a little sole. And that’s really the problem here. Despite the breakfast trade, and the reassuring broadsheet quotes, in its morning clothes the Mermaid remains a fish and chip shop; the walls are still lined with fish-identification charts and marine-themed tat, after all. As we leave I find myself suddenly jealous of the ugly people sat beside us eating battered cod. I haven’t had what they’ve had, but I still stink of fish.

Silva's, Soho

Silva's
220 Shaftesbury Ave
Soho
WC2

by Dr Sigmund Fried

"They fuck you up, your mum and dad"‚ goes the old Larkin poem, and who can argue with that? With the things they force upon you in adolescence: trumpet lessons, Sunday school, the angst-ridden yearly sojourn to Brittany (and in the case of my friend Kevin, the triathalon), it's a wonder we can later interact socially at all. However, unless you're unfortunate enough to be dealt the doubly crippling blow of being born in Coventry and having a father who admires Hitler, parents are generally a good thing: the feeding you, the putting you through college (and in the case of my friend Kevin, the bail money) - the list is near endless. With this in mind, I resolved to show gratitude to my genitors by inviting them down to stay (with the extra incentive of some Prom tickets).

Now, the parent visit is always an excellent excuse to spend some time outside the confines of the holy triumvirate of the achingly hip that is Shoreditch, Dalston and Crackney. And so, in amongst the (normally-too-pricy-for-me but, hey, dad's paying) places we patronized that liberally punctuated our sightseeing, we found the delightful Silva's on Shaftesbury Avenue. Run by a wonderfully feisty Italian Matriarch, the £4.30 breakfast price tag, including tea or coffee, was pleasingly incongruous with the look of the place, given the stylish-but-cosy old world feel. The quality of the food was also at odds with the cost - the bacon being crispy, the sausage meaty and the egg a vibrant yellow, with a commendable supporting cast of beans and mushrooms.

Later, approaching the Tate Modern, a Jane Austen quote popped into my head: "nobody is healthy in London". Under the awe-inspiring gaze of the former power station, happy and my belly full, this didn't seem to matter.

Camden Kitchen, Camden Town

Camden Kitchen
102 Camden High St
Camden Town
NW1
020 7485 2744

by Malcolm Eggs

The litmus test of a breakfast-serving restaurant is exactly the same as it is in secondary school chemistry. Ask any crawling rag man lost in the desert and he'll confirm: it's the tap water, old chap - water is our right, not just as customers, but as life forms. In the Camden Bar & Kitchen they eschew the two most common options, here listed in order of frequency, of (a) not bringing the water or (b) bringing the water. Instead, they inform you of the existence of a jug on the bar from which you are welcome to help yourself. They are tap water Blairites, the Daily Mail would say.

Having imbibed a sizeable quantity of red wine, lager and champagne the previous night I downed my first tumbler of water in a single gluckgluck and spent much of my stay in some sort of transit between table and jug. The 'Kitchen Breakfast' (£6.95) was a classic spread (with tomato instead of beans) but for the introduction of what they call a 'potato cake'. It was a tumultuous affair. The sausage was great, all hot and herbed-up, but the garlic mushrooms were cold. The ciabatta toast had an arty crunch, but the potato cake was surreal. The fried eggs were impossible to fault ("I felt they were my eggs" said my dining companion), but the bacon was cold.

Asked to testify about this breakfast whilst under oath, I would remark that the positives outweighed the negatives, that I have even been back for lunch since (it was halloumi salad and it was excellent), and that I still think about it with a residual fondness, the specific source of which proves elusive.

The Breakfast Club, Greenwich Picturehouse, Greenwich

The Breakfast Club
Greenwich Picturehouse
180 Greenwich High Road
Greenwich
SE10
(occasionally)
www.the-breakfast-club.com

by Hashley Brown

"Yes it's true... this man has no dick."

This line of Dr Peter Venkman's has echoed through my head ever since that Sunday morning, when sat too close to the screen, bleary eyed like the sticky-fingered 7 year old of my youth, I greedily consumed a blockbuster before lunchtime. The comic genius of Bill Murray et al was sadly lost on the prepubescent Hashley - but not this time, as accompanied by a whole cinema full of equally nostalgic 80s children, I chortled and whooped as Venkman, Spengler and Stantz strutted around a ghoul infested NYC.

Herein lies the genius of The Breakfast Club.

Sadly, at the Greenwich leg of what has become a national roadshow for people who once owned Transformers pyjamas, this cinematic genius extends not to the edible side of the proceedings. How glorious could it have been had they dreamed a little bigger, and one really could dine sumptuously before indulging in that most wonderful treat of going to the cinema in the morning (in stark defiance of my mother imploring me to make the most of the daylight). As it was, we wolfed down mediocre pastries and coffee at the bar, and my breakfasting heart sank. What a travesty to be punning on a film! and a meal! at a cinema! in the morning! ... and not coming up with the breakfasty goods.

They could at least have offered us marshmallows.

Leon, Spitalfields

Leon
3 Crispin Place
Spitalfields
E1
020 7247 4369
www.leonrestaurants.co.uk

by Malcolm Eggs

On a lukewarm Friday morning in August I'm standing in the Leon bathroom, whose decorative theme is family holiday photos, and I'm wiping yolk from my shirt and chest. Some of the children in the photos remind me of me. I imagine the me then looking out at the me now (I have drunk too much coffee and I am picking pieces of egg out of my hair) and I conclude that the me then wouldn't be impatient to grow older.

A minute ago, on my way to the bathroom, I told the waiter about my egg, which had exploded with a big 'CRACK' when I cut into it, hurling its contents all over me, Cathy and the restaurant window: it would have been churlish to waste such a unique complaining opportunity. But I felt both disappointed and disturbed by his reaction, which was apologetic, but not particularly surprised.

I return from the bathroom to our table outside. He approaches us with a refund, a round of free drinks, a handful of tokens for more free drinks and an attempted explanation, which consists of two assertions. Firstly, that they had forgotten the chef's birthday. Secondly, that this chef did not rinse the eggs in cold water before peeling them (as part of the 'I Heart England' breakfast they come 'boiled').

Apart from the terrorist egg, the breakfast is fine: the bacon fun and streaky, the portobello mushroom and tomatoes done properly, the toast a bit raw but allowable. It all seems quite boring. I am struck by a wish to see the rest of it detonate, or perhaps turn into flying lizards, so we can see what other assertions the unflappable waiter has concealed up his sleeve.

Clarke's, Kensington

***CLARKE'S IS NO LONGER SERVING BREAKFAST***

Clarke's
124 Kensington church Street
Kensington
W8
020 7221 9225

by Pam de Mie

A smiling welcome comes packaged in a fresh summer's day atmosphere as you squeeze your way through the tiny entrance to Sally Clarke's restaurant. It is dedicated to brunch on Saturdays only, from 11am - 2pm. I love coming here after a morning spent at the local farmer's market, as choosing ingredients for cooking serves to titillate the taste buds in preparation for Sally's bountiful fare. There is an individual and very comprehensive menu to select from and you make your own combination if you like, but Sally has chosen flavours that marry perfectly.

We always start with her gusty take on a Bloody Mary as I adore that celery-laden kick of tomato juice & alcohol at midday. Should you choose 'Anton Mosimann's Birchermuesli with Apple', 'Toasted Hazelnuts and Yoghourt' or an 'Open Omelette with Irish Organic Smoked Salmon, Jersey Royals, New Season's Peas, Chives and Soured Cream', you are getting the best ingredients the UK can provide. This is the secret to Sally's success.

Our brunch for 3 cost £61.00 and there is a minimum spend of £12.00 per person, as well as a mobile phone ban. My order of 'Eggs Benedict on a Homemade English Muffin' was accompanied by spinach at my request. The eggs had perfectly runny bright yellow yolks and were high and round, not flat and watery. The muffin was not doughy in any way but light and crisply toasted, as was the pancetta. But the Hollandaise sauce was the piece de resistance: a generously vinegary presence which was perfect with the richness of the other ingredients.

As if that wasn’t enough, there’s another Clarke’s next door, which sells take-home versions of the very same breads, cakes, biscuits, eggs, fruits and vegetables, muesli, olives, cheeses - the list is truly, delectably endless.

The Ambassador, Clerkenwell

The Ambassador
55 Exmouth Market
Clerkenwell
EC1R
020 7837 0009
www.theambassadorcafe.co.uk

by Vita Bicks

Ah, breakfast with friends. Does London – does life? – offer any greater pleasure? Who among us does not relish its familiar sacraments: the distribution of newspaper supplements, the kisses between the coffee cups, the discussions of literature and politics over the bacon…?

In truth, alas, this is the stuff of orange juice adverts. In the real world, where people have hangovers, communal breakfast generally descends into an unseemly tussle over the magazine, while conversation oscillates between the recriminatory (“I can’t believe X/Y/Z did X/Y/Z”) and the functional (“Pass the sauce”). And who has time for kissing when there’s toast on the table? So this weekend, with my habitual cafe partner awol in the Caucasus, I skipped down to risibly modish Exmouth Market for a genuine treat: breakfast for one. Because, doncha know, I’m worth it.

Décor-wise, the Ambassador straddles the tricky line between minimalism and airport lounge, but on a baking July morning, its cool cream-and-green interior was soothing. Less soothing were the prices. At £3.50, the yoghurt and muesli was affordable - but who leaves the house for muesli? No, I decided: in for a penny, in for £7.50. I plumped for scrumptious-sounding buttermilk pancakes with treacle bacon and banana compote, and settled down with a cup of smooth-as-silk Guatemalan filter and my very own paper with a sigh of contentment.

Service was somewhat sluggish, and portion size unnervingly modest - but my first bite was a foretaste of heaven. The pancake, dense but fluffy, would grace a New York breakfast table; its syrupy sweetness was perfectly counterpointed by the smoky bacon and tangy banana. This is delicious but economically unsustainable breakfasting (£11.20! without booze!), which is why I recommend that you do as I did, and take someone you really love.

Wetherspoon Express, Stansted Airport

Wetherspoon Express
Satellite 2
Stansted Airport, Airside
Stansted
Essex
CM24
01279 669040
www.jdwetherspoon.co.uk

by Herby Banger

It’s Stansted, it’s early. It’s me and my friend Ash strolling wearily through passport control on our way to catch a plane. It’s going to Edinburgh, it’s our friend's stag night. We’re feeling the need for a breakfast to quell the nerves we are feeling - nerves in anticipation of the impending debauchery.

We steer clear of the bagel place on Ash’s previous experience; a sordid tale of inadequate service, blind stupidity and violence in the form of baked goods being used as projectiles. It’s a great story that will have to keep, but it should be noted that I advise everyone to steer well clear.

Finding the only alternative is a Wetherspoons pub we assess all of its breakfast menu options and discover curiously that you can only have scrambled eggs with the different sets on offer. Going for the full English, sitting down at a table to peruse the recently purchased papers from WHSmith, we scan the first page and find that beside us is a waitress ready with our meals. It’s quick. It’s unbelievably quick. It’s realising that the reason you can only have scrambled eggs with your breakfast is because they survive better under a hot lamp and that the whole ensemble: sausages, bacon, beans, mushrooms and tomato, have been sitting in vats behind the scenes.

It’s eaten quickly, and it’s surprisingly good although everything on the plate has the same texture: mushy and soft. It’s not Rembrandt, it’s not even Damien Hirst. It’s more Rolf Harris; simple, accessible and easily digestible. It’s finished without much comment, setting us up perfectly for the run to our gate and the battle to find a good seat on the budget plane to bedlam.

Story Deli, Spitalfields

Story Deli
3 Dray Walk
Old Truman Brewery
91 Brick Lane
Spitalfields
E1
020 7247 3137

by Eggatha Chrispie

I must admit that by the time this review was suggested to me I’d got to know Story Deli like the back of my fork. But frankly, any excuse to visit this haven is a worthwhile one. The marvellously flexible menu (handwritten, of course, in organic chalk on an organic chalkboard) is easily interpreted, and Beverley, ever-friendly, efficient and chatty took the order. My choice this visit was mackerel and poached egg with toast, plus a soya latte.

By the time I’d got half way through this latte, I was experiencing a familiar feeling of blood-loss in the lower part of my thighs – brought on by too-high cardboard stools (tall boxes, basically) combined with a too-low wooden table. But, hey, when a coffee’s that good, it’s not a problem. It wasn’t long before the food turned up, which was good, as the latte cups are not what one would describe as ‘over-generous’ - and in fact, the whole meal wouldn’t lend itself to that description, but there is something about Story Deli that makes one very content with one’s lot.

There's a delicious vinegar-y overtone that lingers around my perfectly poached eggs. The toast is sort of griddle-cooked, and though made from white flour (a pet hate of mine) the sin is excused in this instance. The mackerel, meanwhile, is oily but wholesome, perfectly golden and very, very tasty. I could actually eat it every day and not get tired of it.

On Dray Walk, anything goes (including, on one memorable visit, the staggering figure of Pete Doherty) and Story Deli has gone down very well.

Bistrotheque, Bethnal Green

Bistrotheque
23-27 Wadeson Street
Bethnal Green
E2
020 8983 7900
www.bistrotheque.com

by Orva Easy

It is, without doubt, the mark of a quality establishment, when you are offered the wine list at 11 in the morning. This splendid first impression was further fortified when our waiter batted not an eyelid at our unhesitating order of a bottle of prosecco; and when we wondered about the whereabouts of their cigarette machine, he allowed us to ‘stick it on the bill’ and provided us with temporary relief from his own pocket while he waited for change. This is the nicest place I have ever had breakfast, I thought to myself, and I haven’t even had breakfast yet.

After a perusal of the lengthy brunch menu, its delights ranging from ‘pink grapefruit’, through ‘lardons with sauté potatoes and fried egg’ all the way to ‘rack of lamb’, we both plumped for the safety of smoked haddock, spinach and poached egg with hollandaise. With our bottle of bubbles and pack of twenty (yes, twenty, not sixteen), we whiled away a very pleasant ten minute wait in the direct line of a fan (thoughtfully repositioned by our charming waiter), and concentrated on getting drunk.

When at last it arrived, I was momentarily taken aback by the smallness of our little breakfast towers, balanced on English muffins in the centre of vast white plates. One small incision into the fluffy poached egg, however, and disappointment faded into childish enjoyment as the yolk oozed out and mingled pleasingly with the liberally applied hollandaise. The piece of haddock, which was at least as thick as my thumb, was perhaps slightly over-poached but meaty enough to be forgivable. I forget the spinach, and at £8 one does rather hope to remember every aspect of a breakfast, but the spring in my stagger as I lurched out into the sunshine made it entirely worthwhile.

Kika, Highbury

Kika
228 St Pauls Road
Highbury
N1

by Dr Sigmund Fried

Dreadlocks, vegans, trustafarians, people who play the bongos in parks, trance, didgeridoos, scented candles, dreamcatchers, capoeira, juggling, Leo Hickman, headscarves, yoga and the piety - oh sweet Bachus, the piety. These are just some of the terrible things that ran through my still wet brain on entering Kika, based on the décor (like a particularly vivid Howard Hodgkin), the music (Zero 7/Lamb/Morcheebaaaarrggghhh) and the furniture (Elvis in Hawaii). It's fair to say I was in a mildly misanthropic mood.

I gingerly opened a menu. Great, they do a cooked breakfast. But what's this in the small print? Vogel bread? Organic, homemade baked beans? It's healthy! Nnnoooooooooooo!!! Why, for the love of Agamemnon, I thought, would anyone do this, when it contradicts everything us Brits have ever believed in? It's perverse!!

15 minutes later I had my answer - that is to say I'd eaten my answer and loved it. While the bread and beans were perfectly pleasant, it was the regulars (sausage, bacon, egg) that made it so good, being of a high (organic) quality not normally found in a £5 breakfast. A distinct lack of grease, it turns out, is actually a good thing for the fragile constitution. Weird.

Taking in my surroundings again, this time with a feeling of wellbeing and contentment, I couldn't help notice how lovely the bright, vivid paint work was, how quaint the wonky wooden furniture was, how the soothing jazz cigarette music calmed one's spirit, and how lavishly fecund the garden at the back was.

In fact, the only twist too far, even with my new-found cynic-free disposition, was the red bush tea that came instead of the builders that I so craved. Healthy or not, red bush tea tastes like feet. Oh, and public bongo players can still f*** right off as well.

Kalendar, Highgate

Kalendar
15a Swains Lane
Highgate
N6
020 8348 8300

by Mabel Syrup

Anonymous said, “Some one should try Kalendar in Swains Lane, that is the best breakie in nw5, you won’t be disappointed”.

“We shall take up this challenge” cried Mabel to her Malcolm one hungry Saturday morning.

It was a slight set back when it was discovered that Swains Lane neither exists in NW5, nor in certain A to Zs. Nerves were calmed, however, and stomachs shushed when it was found nestled at the bottom of Parliament Hill (N6 for anyone who’s counting).

Kalendar is set in a line of attractive cafes all equally brimming with people and regarding them on this morning was to arrive at the crest of the hill and see the beautiful sparkling sea you have been yearning for. This feeling continued past the man eating French toast and bananas, the delicatessen brimming with fresh cheeses and breads, the unmatching wooden chairs and tables that give the feeling of a large country kitchen, the iced tap water that arrived promptly, right up until the first piece of cutlery pierced the first item on our plates.

Kalendars’ English Breakfast filled us with promise; a handsome sausage, two organically shaped poached eggs, a robust strip of bacon, perfectly charred tomatoes and a slightly-too-large pool of baked beans.

I can’t begin to describe my disappointment when I discovered the sausage to be undercooked and an actual gag ensued after a bite of almost utterly raw egg. This is one of the saddest breakfasts I have had. Kalendar obviously know about good food and the importance of high quality ingredients yet we suffered the results of trying to cater for too many people in too little time. I would revisit Kalendar as I have faith it can succeed, but perhaps on a weekday, and perhaps I would have the French toast.

Dominique's in Hampstead Heath, Hampstead

Dominique's in Hampstead Heath
19 South End Rd
Hampstead
NW3
0871 0755050

by Poppy Tartt

It's difficult to order breakfast under the gaze of a mad woman. This woman's madness - or at least her complete failure to observe conventional social codes dictating how much you stare, how much you touch your face, how much you shuffle and how close you come to other people's breakfast tables - manifests itself most strongly when she leans over and snaps her hand, 'yap yap yap', at you as you are talking. She seems to be a striking red-haired symbol of the not-so-firm grip you have on your own sanity. Luckily you have a firm grip on the menu, and a nascent hunger.

Dominique's is one of those places that makes Hampstead look like Hampstead - a place populated by vaguely continental-looking cafes with small tables and children spilling out into leafy streets. Whether the mad woman is a regular feature of the café is impossible to say; the breakfast however, which presumably is a regular feature, is large and primarily excellent. The beans, thank god, keep themselves to themselves at the corner of the plate, interfering slightly with the grilled tomato but to no great detriment. The eggs, protected from the red terror by a vast swathe of bacon, glisten suspiciously and are a little slick, but you remain friends. The sausages are the ragged kind, ripped apart to seem more numerous and meaty, but the trick works. Altogether it's enough to distract you temporarily from thoughts of mental health, yours and society's, until you realise that you have eaten everything in a frenzy and now feel sick - surely evidence of madness lurking - and now your friend, who ascetically ordered only raisin toast, who says she has seen that very mad woman waving a broken umbrella on Holloway Road, is eating your leftover bacon rind.

Est Est Est, Gatwick Airport

Est Est Est
South Terminal
Gatwick Airport
RH6
01293 579040
www.estestest.co.uk

by Malcolm Eggs

Sharp objects aren't the only things confiscated on your way into Gatwick departure lounge: they also do away with the unspoken rules of breakfasting. Suddenly it's fine, it seems, to start the day with vegetable soup, cheeseburgers or Carlsberg Export. Perhaps it's in this spirit of utter bedlam that Est Est Est came up with the idea of a 'breakfast pizza', an option we forwent in favour of two traditional breakfasts, a maple and banana crepe and a 'foccacia con pancetta e uova', at a total cost of £32.

Slightly miserable bacon aside, my traditional breakfast was quite a looker. The proud, dark and confidently charred sausage contrasted elegantly with the lighter shades of the two fried eggs, themselves framed by a big Portobella mushroom and a glamorous scattering of sautéed potatoes. My plate resembled a page ripped from the Observer Food Monthly - and unfortunately it tasted like one too. The potatoes were bland, the sausage had been nicked from a school dinner lady's pocket, the egg yolk had been phoned in from an Afghan bunker and the mushroom was Dr Frankenstein's (lesser known) failed clone of a mushroom. Could it be that I was I eating a virtual reality breakfast?

Meanwhile, Ed Benedict was being dragged into a pancake quagmire. A sticky, sickly deluge of luminous syrupy goo was causing the bananas, berries and even the mighty pancake to drown pathetically. The colours from this scene were so garish that if it was 1988 I'd have been able to sell a photo of it to the people who made Athena posters, but it was an appalling breakfast. My recommendation is to opt for a hot dog with a gin and tonic.

Simpson's-in-the-Strand, Covent Garden

Simpson's-in-the-Strand
100 Strand
Covent Garden
WC2R
020 7836 9112
www.simpsonsinthestrand.co.uk

by Blake Pudding

After being accused of miserliness by a disgruntled reader I decided to repair my bruised ego by taking breakfast at Simpson’s-in-the-Strand. I took along my much put-upon assistant Laura and London’s most notorious hypochondriac John O’ Connell. I arrived late and hungover having spent the night hobnobbing with right-wing socialites at the Spectator’s summer party. The moment I staggered through the revolving door a pretty Russian with an accent that could turn Elton John straight asked me if I was Mr Pudding. She then showed me to my table where my guests awaited me.

The breakfast menu was extensive, taking in the full English, pastries, porridge, fruit, kippers and the like. But in surroundings this old-fashioned I think only a fool (or a foreigner) would order anything other than kedgeree. When it arrived it brought back memories of the colonial childhood I never had. It was gooey and beautifully spiced like a kind of Anglo-Indian risotto and it came with lavish amounts of lightly smoked haddock. The hard-boiled eggs, however, were overcooked. My companions went for the scrambled eggs with smoked salmon (are they fools or foreigners?). Both seemed happy with theirs, though I think John muttered something about his eggs being on the cool side.

The bill including service, juices and teas was about £50. This does seem very expensive but bear in mind that we could have had fruit salads and pastries too, as they were included in the price of our mains. The mains themselves were designed for our increasingly chubby transatlantic cousins; I did not need to eat again until supper. So if you are a generous sort with a generous appetite then Simpson's is the perfect place to breakfast.

Peter de Wit's, Greenwich

Peter de Wit's
21 Greenwich Church Street
Greenwich
SE10
08713 327 097

by Des Ayuno

With its classy dark green and white facade, Peter de Wit's held promise for two hungry travellers fresh off a Thames cruise. The discovery of a shaded terrace out back was in keeping with the relaxed, idyllic nature of the day.

Orders were noted with friendly courtesy: scrambled eggs with smoked salmon and tea for me, and an off-menu request for "the closest thing you've got to a veggie breakfast" and fresh orange juice for the Scot. When the waiter faux-grimaced over the sports pages (covering England's quarter-final exit in agonising detail), it seemed an endearing extension of the place's chummy welcome.

That, however, was the end of a beautiful morning. The fresh orange juice was as accurately named as Sybil Fawlty's fruit salad. The veggie breakfast contained all the standards, inoffensively prepared - eggs (scrambled), toast (margarined), tomatoes (roasted), mushrooms (tinned), beans (holding it all together) - as well as an unidentifiable lump. I alone braved a forkful and discovered it was stuffing. It was a daring inclusion, but sadly inedible, as proved the rest of the Scot's breakfast when a hair surfaced in the eggs.

Long, dark and glossy, it could never have fallen from the waiter's sparsely thatched crown, although he appeared to be the sole member of staff present. In any case, my eggs were hair-free, and the smoked salmon was stacked on top rather than scrambled with - both small mercies. But the toast was cold and the enormous, unadvertised green salad ignored.

It should be mentioned that the offending meal was removed from the bill, but a lethargic melancholy stopped us pointing out the fundamentally offensive nature of the entire experience and, as we left, the waiter's nervous, apologetic giggles followed us for too long down the high street.

Special dispatch: Bill’s, Lewes, East Sussex

Bill's Produce Store
56 Cliffe High Street
Lewes BN7
01273 476 918
www.billsproducestore.co.uk

by Orva Easy

“Toast and jam?” no. “Cheese on toast?” no. “Baked beans on toast?” no. A short and sullen pause. Then a churlish whisper. “Marmite.”

There is, in truth, only one solitary snag in eating your breakfast at Bill’s and that is the necessity, due to its popularity, of sharing a table with a skinny, neurotic, ineffectual East Sussex dairy-phobe and her ghastly little shitbag of a son. This tiny tyrant, urged on by his mother’s apparent inability to digest anything more complex than pureed wheatgrass, refused to eat anything on the menu, left his marmite-soaked crusts and was (rightly, in my opinion) outraged when the ‘slush puppy’ his idiot mother had promised him with false and misplaced cunning appeared as a freshly-squidged, e-number and sugar-free fruit smoothie. He refused even to try it. I contemplated dumping it over his head.

Fortunately, this is a small price to pay to languish in a breakfaster’s paradise. Bill’s Breakfast is a mountain of steaming deliciousness, precariously balanced on a rectangular plate and thoughtfully garnished with a sprig or two of tasty little purple salad leaves. Everything is organic, the eggs sing of fresh air, good feed and weekly shed-screenings of Chicken Run and you can practically taste the boundless bliss that filled the life of your bacon, skipping with joy even unto the waiting arms of the butcher. What sweet tears he must have wept to see piggy's trusting little eyes squinting up at him as the sun glinted on his big shiny knife.

For a moment, Mrs Milk-free was transfixed, horrified, by my empty plate, licked clean of the last dribble of grease and egg yolk. The jug of soya milk hung in the air; her offspring took the opportunity to stick his snotty finger in the communal Marmite. Then she ran. A breakfast well taken, I thought to myself.

The Providores and Tapa Room, Marylebone

The Providores and Tapa Room
109 Marylebone High Street
Marylebone
W1U
020 7935 6175
www.theprovidores.co.uk

by Scott Cheigg

It is said that French toast commands £8.50 at The Providores and Tapa Room on Marylebone High Street, so my friend appears in a stylish summer dress and I am sporting smart shoes, dress trousers and a fitted shirt, and if it wasn't for the large black eye - obtained in a brawl outside a nightclub in Soho, three nights previously, because I didn't like the way someone was looking at me - nobody would be able to tell that I don't belong in an establishment such as this, lest someone look at me the wrong way and I have to hospitalise another citizen of this town.

We are ushered to a corner table (in an attempt, I suspect, to hide me) and our waitress - all smiles and sitting down beside us to make us feel very welcome indeed - takes our order consisting of: one vegetarian breakfast, one vegetarian breakfast with a side of black pudding, one raspberry and strawberry smoothie and one pot of builder's tea.

The service is prompt and the food largely excellent. Our eggs - scrambled - are delicately herbed. I cannot vouch for the black pudding because I would not let such an item pass my lips for fear of vomiting, but my friend raises a verbal glass to them. The mushrooms are as fine a fungus as I ever taste, the tomatoes impressive without being showy and the sourdough bread the perfect bed for our victuals. Satiated, we rest awhile, watching the hour hand creep toward midday, or cocktail o’clock. When it comes, we indulge in Bloody Marys and Chocolate Martinis and doff our metaphorical cap to The Providores and Tapa Room, vowing to return for the French toast the following Sunday (assuming the mugging I am planning this evening comes off to the tune of £50).

Regency Café, Pimlico

Regency Café
17 - 19 Regency St
Pimlico
SW1P 4BY
020 7821 6596

by Gracie Spoon

The Regency Café provoked a series of gleeful squeals from the corner in which my breakfast companion and I sat. We were beside ourselves with delight, and here, I think, is why: in a town where cafes and bars rapidly open, shut, refurb and change management, contriving new vintage/ retro/ kitsch/ 80s/ 50s/ Victoriana styles accordingly, the idea that the beautiful Regency Café and its different-place- different-time world is for real was almost a shock. Established in 1946, this café’s deco exterior, tiled walls, gingham curtains, and formica tables indicate history, as opposed to the carefully-planned, good-looking irony we’d absorbed elsewhere. And upon hearing that the current owner bought the place from a family friend twenty years ago - inspiringly uncorporate music for our over-advertised to ears – well, squeak! And wow.

Tucked away on a quiet museum of a street in which the Regency is not the only pristinely-maintained anachronism, this place is a proud veteran of breakfasting. You order at the counter, and wait for your breakfast in a time-warp atmosphere so potent it almost moves in black and white. It’s not just the menu and the décor either. Another tenet of the old-fashioned English cafe is also borne out, (one often more clearly modelled by its counterpart: the old fashioned English pub): with the exception of me and my co-squealer, the other people in here are noticeably all men – massive, blokey, lorry-driver sized men.

Summoned back to the counter by the shout, "ONE EGG ON TOAST, MUSHROOMS, TOMATOS AND BUBBLE", my breakfast begins. It’s gorgeous. For around £4: explosively flavourful tomatoes gently frosted with char, a perfectly-fried egg slithering on brown toast of the exact right thickness… and the best bit? A crispy bubble and squeal.

Trojka, Primrose Hill

Trojka
101 Regents Park Road
Primrose Hill
NW1
020 7483 3765
www.trojka.co.uk

by Corin Flakes

The World Cup: how it divides the planetary mood. While the atavistic fan - carrying his gut like some terrible trophy - fizzes with tribal agitation, Ed Benedict and I entered the spirit of global unity by visiting the Russian tea rooms of Trojka.

Plonked on a pavement table amongst the gilded beau monde of Primrose Hill, I ordered the 'Trojka Breakfast'. Though Russian in name it is resolutely English: its synergy is with the builder, not the oligarch. The sausages were blandly comforting, and the bacon sustained a crispy bite, curling like a well-grilled treble clef. Glumly stranded in a pallid sauce, the beans had lost whatever warmth they may once have had, but the toast and tomatoes, often clumsy addendums, were perfectly fine. It was all just... average. Ed favoured mushrooms and scrambled eggs on toast, and the substitution of dull white with crunchy rye provoked uncontained pleasure.

Trojka should be commended for service. On a roasting day with the sun at its full, penetrating apex, they brought us a cauldron of cold water; a small act that showed perceptive understanding of customer need. Finally - the coffee. It is immeasurably powerful: nuclear brewed, plutonium strength. A single cup is electrifying. Your heart beat quickens exponentially with each dense sip. But two could propel you to acts of sociopathic disregard. Beer is often blamed for manifestations of British thuggery but I suspect plenty of maniacs, brawlers and fist-swingers have in fact had a thermos flask of this stuff.