The Cafe, Kilburn

The Cafe (also known as Ellie's)
316 Kilburn High Rd
Kilburn
NW6

by Scott Cheigg

Ah, Kilburn. Historical Irish enclave, largest Polish construction worker population in the country and locale of Ellie's greasy knife, fork and spoon cafe. From the garish, laminated stain-spattered menus to the labourers debating the finer machinations of Jose Mourinho's psyche-tactics in the corner table, each cafe cliché is intact. An order of two scrambled eggs, baked beans, chipped potatoes and three brown toast on the side poses no significant problems for either kitchen or sour-faced waitress; portions are large, eggs are scrambled so as to straddle the fine line between rubber and runny, and toast is crisp yet yielding, always warm, always buttered, never margarined.

My request for a cup of peppermint tea, however, results in the arrival of a steaming mug of English Breakfast. Illuminating the error serves only to afford my waitress a chance to point out that she is right and I wrong, though the fact that this has happened three times in three visits would suggest that either there is no peppermint tea to be had or they think me a scoundrel and do not wish my future custom.

Regardless, I return obediently, whenever the fancy takes me, which is often [again this very afternoon, in fact, when a can of Coca Cola was served in the can, with a straw], and can highly recommend it, unless you are used to dining at The Wolseley, in which case you will consider Ellie's nothing more than a culinary toilet, and I would consider you a snob.

The Quality Chop House, Farringdon

The Quality Chop House
92-94 Farringdon Road
Farringdon
EC1R

by Herby Banger

Like missionaries on a strange quest we danced our way through the morning traffic to meet inside the Quality Chop House. There was something of a devilish glint in the eyes of Hashley and Malcolm as I shuffled in next to them on one of the old oak pews that adorn the place, for this was a breakfast we had anticipated for some time with much excitement.

The QCH is one of the last remaining examples of the working class chophouses of the late nineteenth century. Designed and built by one Roland Plumbe, its character and features have rightly been listed by English Heritage.

Although the menu contained many fine options, it was clear from the outset that the fear of missing out on something truly spectacular meant that all three of us would opt for the 'St. George’s Breakfast', a gargantuan feast containing two free range eggs, grilled lamb chop, calves liver, black pudding, back bacon, sausage, mushroom and tomato. A breakfast to contemplate, much less eat, simply staring at it filled me with pleasure. It sat there gloriously, a war cry to the senses.

Devouring was a big task, but as the name suggested, everything here was of the utmost quality. The eggs burst in a golden yellowy thunder, so ripe that they could be mistaken for fruit. The sausage coarse and muscular, unfettered by the touch of machinery. Liver so tender and pure, as if from a special breed of Himalayan cow. Mushroom delicate and tasty. Even the tomato, my least favourite breakfasting ingredient, was sumptuous.

In every great battle, sacrifices have to be made, and here it is the princely sum of £17.50 that must be liberated from the purse strings. A price worth paying? Maybe, but not every week.

The Premises, Shoreditch

The Premises
209 Hackney Rd
Shoreditch
E2 8JL
020 7729 7593

by Hashley Brown

Besuited and befuddled, standing in the bright sunlight of a faux-spring morning in slow contemplation of the hustle and bustle of the Premises, it dawned on me that this acclaimed cafe may be the one thing to restore my sleep-deprived dignity. Attached to one of London's more prestigious rehearsal and recording studios, home in the past to such musical luminaries as the Magic Numbers and Lions and Tigers, this cafe sees a steady trade of locals and flower market attendees on a Sunday morning.

Acquiring a table was tricky, but once squeezed round the diminutive piece of furniture, we were accommodated well. Lively chat and friendly if brusque service complimented a more than ample breakfast menu, that saw both veggie and meaty options selected. As the large amply filled plates were presented I could at last see the cloud lifting and hope dawned anew. The aggregation of hash browns, bacon, sausage, egg, black pudding and tomato was hearty well cooked fare, if lacking some of the stylistic coherency that defines the true gourmet breakfast.

Yet mid-meal, tackling one of my nicely crisped rashers of bacon, disaster befell me. I blame the small table, others my dyspraxia, but as my half finished breakfast left the plate and headed crotch-wards my hopes and dreams of regaining my dignity were cruelly dashed. With the laughter of friends and neighbours crashing around me as I feebly spooned the vestiges of a pleasant meal from my lap I couldn't help noticing both my suit and my breakfast were considerably worse off. Thank goodness I don't like beans.

Manzara, Notting Hill

Manzara
24 Pembridge Road
Notting Hill
W11 3HL
020 7727 3062

by H.P. Seuss

I open my eyes. I quit the bed, take my morning ablutions and skip to the kitch for my morning bite.

The cupboards are bare.

But where one man sees disaster I see an opportunity. I'm allowed to be a little late for work on Fridays — and I can use the occasion to submit a review for Malcolm Eggs.

Now, my constitution dictates that I must eat within twenty minutes of rising, or I become beset by abdominal pain and encephalic rage until I either punch someone or faint like a girl. Nonetheless, reasoning that the cafes of Stoke Newington are already well documented on the LRB, I conclude that it would better to take a risk and look for somewhere en commute to Kensington. I set off.

My constitution begins making its demands. But I'm compelled to reject the Arsenal Café in Finsbury Park, Arsenal being the scum. I feel weak. But getting off at King's Cross would take too long. I toy with Oxford Circus, where I change tubes, but I can't envisage any suitable venues. I feel angry. By Notting Hill Gate, I am in despair. I emerge. I grope blindly. My heart quickens, my temples throb. Everything's going white...

* * * * *

I open my eyes. I am in a bright, calm, tinkling room. A pretty Mediterranean girl places a huge, piping plate in front of me. With a weak paw, I spear a bit of sausage, dip it in bean and point it towards my mouth. My God, it's good. I cut off some bacon, stroke it with amber yolk, and stab a chip. Wow. I begin to gambol around the plate. I rejoice. All is present and pleasant, plentiful and proportional. For a bill of £5.95.

My fast is broken.

Fino’s Orangery, Docklands

Fino’s Orangery
1 Harbour Exchange Square
Docklands
E14 9GE
020 7515 2600

by Molly Coddle-Degg

Work bonding sessions generally involve bountiful amounts of alcohol, in order to counter the fact that most colleagues don’t have much to say to each other in a social context. However, on this occasion, I truly welcomed the more wholesome suggestion of a Team Breakfast.

We arrived in the office bright and early, dreaming of eggs, and toddled off to Fino’s Orangery for bacon and said bonding. With its somewhat odd choice of décor, the Orangery looks like the sanitised reception area of a large multinational corporation, which is hardly surprising, given that this is Canary Wharf and any hint of soul will be ripped out of you faster than you can say ‘buy, buy, sell, sell’ or ‘I heart Alan Sugar’. We dined under neon lights and plastic plants, surrounded by lonesome businessmen hunched over their laptops – presumably not Armani enough to be invited to power breakfasts in the HSBC tower.

As for the food, perhaps I was too busy bonding to notice any thrilling taste nuances, but it seemed simply standard cooked breakfast fare; alright, but nothing to get egg-static about. Sausages just the right side of rubbery, bacon just the right side of crispy, and eggs, well you can’t beat an egg, can you? The toast fan won’t be disappointed though – copious amounts were in evidence, cut into neat triangles, along with a generous selection of sample-sized tubs of butter and marmalade. (At one point the bonding was threatened by a looming fight over the mini strawberry jam, but fortunately a blackberry alternative was deemed acceptable).

So if you ever find yourself in Docklands early enough for breakfast, I suppose Fino’s Orangery would serve the purpose, but at an average £7 a head, and it being in Docklands, you’d probably be better off bonding somewhere else.

Paradise Cafe, Kensal Rise

Paradise Cafe (aka Nonna's)
271 Kensal Rd
Kensal Rise
W10 5DB

by Juan Sugar

The Monday morning fry-up is a different beast to your weekend sojourn. The weekend breakfast should be characterised by a good-natured bonhomie and tales of the previous night's mishaps. The Monday equivalent is, however, a more reflective (one may even say spiritual) affair. Best taken on one’s own, it should be used to mentally prepare oneself for the onslaught of the oncoming week. If taken during company time then it also becomes an act of rebellion – a greasy two fingered salute to the working week.

It had been a boozy weekend. My encounter with a box of fried chicken late Sunday evening should really have sated my desire for fried goodness, yet by the time I entered Nonnas I needed what they had, badly. Despite the bustle I managed to find a table on my lonesome. The greasy condensation that had formed on the window was a welcome barrier between myself and the hustle of the working week outside.

When my Full English arrived, I wasn’t disappointed. The sausage was a fiery little number, the tomatoes had that perfect soft-top wobble and the mushrooms were as tender and juicy as they had been in my dreams. The chips were thick cut and crunchy, the bacon moist and sweet and the beans piping hot and with a good sauce. It came with two slices of toast and a steaming mug of tea, all for £4.50. The café started to clear. A quiet calm descended, broken only by the contented scrapes of cutlery against porcelain.

When I left I had the kind of glow that is rare for a Monday which goes to show that while fry-ups may be bad for your health, on Monday mornings they are good for your well-being.

Phoenix Restaurant, Brixton

Phoenix Restaurant
441 Coldharbour Lane
Brixton
SW9 8LN
020 7733 4430

by Malcolm Eggs

Discuss breakfast with a Brixtonian and they'll mention the Phoenix. Wedged just off the corner of the pumped-up jugular that is Coldharbour Lane, it's not merely "the Phoenix" - it goes deeper than that: to regulars it's the very meaning of 'greasy spoon', the Platonic form of bacon and eggs. The no-frills wooden tables and laminate walls have attracted the endorsement of Classic Cafes, while the white toast would have a place on the 'breadstuffs' shelf in the Brixton Folk Legend Library, were such a library and such a shelf to exist.

With all this in mind, I really wanted to love it for just being there, just standing firm for everything such places stand for. The tea was perfect tan, and the staff were full of Devil-may-care South-of-the-river charisma, this morning discussing the finer points of domestic violence intervention with a couple of shady local entrepreneurs. An old man perused the Telegraph over two egg on toast, and a younger man, wide-eyed, eavesdropped on it all openly, the rain outside generously emphasising the cosy interior.

But when my All-Day Breakfast Special (£4.50) arrived, I could not love it, I could only like it. The egg, beans and bubble had read their job descriptions and fulfilled them to, if not beyond, the letter. The sausage was respectable, if only 2nd Division. The toast had indeed hit on some long-forgotten ratio of grilled-bread to butter, giving it a special alchemy of toasty tastiness. But I had asked for my bacon to be crispy and yet there it lurked, beneath the beans: a murky underbelly, one side heated, the other palest pink. I know it's traditional to take your bacon soft. But then boiled pig's head is traditional, and I don't like that either.

The Abbey, Kentish Town

The Abbey
124 Kentish Town Rd
Kentish Town
NW1 9QB
020 72679449
www.abbey-tavern.com

by Mabel Syrup

I am not good at making decisions, especially when hung over. So imagine my disappointment after lying in bed for a good hour, mulling over the various different culinary delights I thought I knew to be on offer at the Abbey, only to discover that my chosen dish was no longer available. They had changed their minds, and the menus - so many times in fact that they had lost track of which one should be on display. Hastily trying to cram the idea of pancakes, bacon and maple syrup into my mind’s recycling box, I found myself faced with a much-diminished choice: Eggs Benedict, Florentine or Royale (all heavily criticised by an earlier-rising Hashley Brown), a Full English or scrambled eggs on toast.

Since making the leap from ‘pub’ to ‘gastropub’ around a year ago, the Abbey has had several members of the LRB team huffing and puffing at the oft-interminable wait after ordering. This was no exception, but my choice of a Full English was the correct one: I was finally greeted by a perfect egg with a bright yellow yolk, which ran gently into the crispy folds of the bacon and the mushrooms were fresh and juicy. The problem was the sausage. It looked good. It smelled fragrant. But it tasted… indistinct, as if someone else had chewed it first and the meat had been recovered from some special spittoon. It was dutifully re-chewed and swallowed, with a good smothering of red sauce, but the inevitable taste that lingered was that the Abbey is inconsistent, thus not somewhere to take your visiting friends – but perhaps somewhere to go with the neighbours.