The Place Café
17 Duke’s Road
Euston
WC1H
0207 383 5469
www.theplace.org.uk
by Mabel Syrup
What better start to a Friday morning than being asked by your employers to join a ‘Working Committee’ for the inhouse café? It struck me, however, that if I am going to be held responsible for any part of the central attraction to this Contemporary Dance Organisation Extraordinaire, then I had better pass judgment on their breakfast.
The Place is hidden away on a small cobbled road next to St Pancras Church and provides a welcome relief from the misery that is Euston Road. The café, which is open to the public, isn’t atmospheric or particularly special, but it attracts a surprisingly large amount of visitors who I doubt are there for their love of contemporary dance (although some may wish to stare at the scantily clad dance students who swarm in every day).
The Place staff themselves have a love-hate relationship with the café. They relish the chance to regale others with stories of despicable meals they have attempted to consume there, but you will find them ten minutes later lurking around the salad bar or salivating in front of the cakes. I am no different, especially given that I have been rescued on many a hungover morning by an impromptu breakfast eaten surreptitiously behind my computer monitor. For £3.00 one can choose 6 items from 10 of the usual breakfast constituents, placed on regular-sized plates, and it comes in as a substantial, bargainous amount. It’s not a spectacular breakfast, the quality of the ingredients is ‘normal’ and nothing forces any utterances of ecstasy – but it will settle the contents of an alcohollow stomach and the resultant lingering warm greasy contented feeling makes for a good sleep, ahem, full, productive working day.
Friday, April 28, 2006
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
Cafe Mari e Monti, Finsbury Park
Cafe Mari E Monti
11 Crouch Hill
Finsbury Park
N4
020 7272 3302
by Poppy Tartt
Bubble and squeak is not a looker. Brave were the cooks who served up this crouching toad that threatened to spring unbidden into the mouth’s pond. But toads are interesting creatures and this one certainly offered more in the way of taste and texture than its unfortunate face dared promise. My sausage could have been a saveloy’s brother, so long and lean was it, so full of bounce. But the true sausage is an elder statesman to the saveloy’s gangly adolescent; this sausage eyed me gravely with dignity and respect. My mushrooms were the teeth of babies – tiny and underdeveloped. This was not appropriate – they ought to be at least as large as toes and twice as juicy. Sweet bacon! Fair, generous, wives to the sausage, the edges of the rashers curled delicately, reminding one of the kindness and pinkness of women. The egg, tragically, was puck-shaped, not quite fried, not quite coddled enough to have confidence in itself at such a young age. It had been taken from the breast of the pan too soon, I reflected. Inside it, seeking hope, or at the very least yolk, I found nothing but water and air. Perhaps it was frightened by its neighbour, as I was, a demonic disk of clotted blood – the fearful thing they call black pudding. I braved a only tongue-tip’s worth before passing it to my more carnivorous companion.
Later, coasting northwards on the memory of this multi-generational, anthropomorphic platter, like midges hitching a ride on a pork scratching, we turned to each other and cried out: “Life!”
11 Crouch Hill
Finsbury Park
N4
020 7272 3302
by Poppy Tartt
Bubble and squeak is not a looker. Brave were the cooks who served up this crouching toad that threatened to spring unbidden into the mouth’s pond. But toads are interesting creatures and this one certainly offered more in the way of taste and texture than its unfortunate face dared promise. My sausage could have been a saveloy’s brother, so long and lean was it, so full of bounce. But the true sausage is an elder statesman to the saveloy’s gangly adolescent; this sausage eyed me gravely with dignity and respect. My mushrooms were the teeth of babies – tiny and underdeveloped. This was not appropriate – they ought to be at least as large as toes and twice as juicy. Sweet bacon! Fair, generous, wives to the sausage, the edges of the rashers curled delicately, reminding one of the kindness and pinkness of women. The egg, tragically, was puck-shaped, not quite fried, not quite coddled enough to have confidence in itself at such a young age. It had been taken from the breast of the pan too soon, I reflected. Inside it, seeking hope, or at the very least yolk, I found nothing but water and air. Perhaps it was frightened by its neighbour, as I was, a demonic disk of clotted blood – the fearful thing they call black pudding. I braved a only tongue-tip’s worth before passing it to my more carnivorous companion.
Later, coasting northwards on the memory of this multi-generational, anthropomorphic platter, like midges hitching a ride on a pork scratching, we turned to each other and cried out: “Life!”
Monday, April 24, 2006
Jack's, Queens Park
Jack's
101 Salusbury Road
Queens Park
NW6
by Scott Cheigg
It was with some incredulity that I found myself walking into Jacks again, given that on two previous visits I had cause to complain twice about something or other. We entered trepidatiously and approached the counter.
- “A bottle of still water and a glass of ice, please.”
- "We have no bottles of still water."
- "A glass of tap water with lots of ice?"
- "We have no ice."
- "You have no bottled water or ice?"
- *shrugs*
Bemused, my companion ordered scrambled eggs, straight up, and I a vegetarian breakfast and fresh orange juice. We repaired to the street-side seating and noted that the window display next to us consisted entirely of bottles of water; Lemon and Siberian Ginger. Tangerine and Ginkgo Biloba and so on. My companion went next door to a grocer's to purchase a bottle of common or garden water and I took the opportunity to request that my 'cup of bottomless tea' be of the peppermint variety. Behold the dialogue:
- "Sorry, we can't do that."
- "It’s just a tea bag! Instead of putting an English Breakfast bag
in the pot, you just put a peppermint bag in!"
- "We don't have any peppermint tea. Only green."
- "Green tea's fine. Thanks."
- “I'm not sure we can do that..."
- "You're kidding…"
- "Well, okay, but just this once."
Jacks, you are jackasses. I would have you closed down and the lot of you carted off to New York to study Customer Service because I do not think you would know Customer Service if it smashed you repeatedly in the face with a house brick emblazoned with the legend 'Customer Service' whilst screaming "I am Customer Service" in alternate ears.
There is no word to save thee.
Truly, thou art damned.
101 Salusbury Road
Queens Park
NW6
by Scott Cheigg
It was with some incredulity that I found myself walking into Jacks again, given that on two previous visits I had cause to complain twice about something or other. We entered trepidatiously and approached the counter.
- “A bottle of still water and a glass of ice, please.”
- "We have no bottles of still water."
- "A glass of tap water with lots of ice?"
- "We have no ice."
- "You have no bottled water or ice?"
- *shrugs*
Bemused, my companion ordered scrambled eggs, straight up, and I a vegetarian breakfast and fresh orange juice. We repaired to the street-side seating and noted that the window display next to us consisted entirely of bottles of water; Lemon and Siberian Ginger. Tangerine and Ginkgo Biloba and so on. My companion went next door to a grocer's to purchase a bottle of common or garden water and I took the opportunity to request that my 'cup of bottomless tea' be of the peppermint variety. Behold the dialogue:
- "Sorry, we can't do that."
- "It’s just a tea bag! Instead of putting an English Breakfast bag
in the pot, you just put a peppermint bag in!"
- "We don't have any peppermint tea. Only green."
- "Green tea's fine. Thanks."
- “I'm not sure we can do that..."
- "You're kidding…"
- "Well, okay, but just this once."
Jacks, you are jackasses. I would have you closed down and the lot of you carted off to New York to study Customer Service because I do not think you would know Customer Service if it smashed you repeatedly in the face with a house brick emblazoned with the legend 'Customer Service' whilst screaming "I am Customer Service" in alternate ears.
There is no word to save thee.
Truly, thou art damned.
Friday, April 21, 2006
The Bagel Factory, Waterloo International
The Bagel Factory
Eurostar Departure Lounge
Unit 8
Waterloo International
SE1
020 7922 1422
www.bagelfactory.co.uk
by Cathy Latte
My mum has a remarkable resilience that she unwittingly and selflessly passes on to all she meets. Countless times I’ve heard her soft Irish lilt utter those words “you mustn’t dwell” to a troubled friend, weepy child or, at times, a crestfallen daughter. However, for all her adaptability, travel still gets her a little flappy – so when recently we arrived at Waterloo to catch the Eurostar I thought it best to sort our breakfast once through passport control.
Circling the concourse, excitable mother and wheelie bags in tow, I led the breakfast search party. By the second lap past elderly sausages on the main caff counter, greying sandwiches at WH Smith and the Bagel Factory (the Euston counterpart of which has already received a blasting by Mabel), my disquiet was growing.
Still, we had to eat, and bagels looked best. We bought two breakfast ones (egg, mushroom, sausage, bacon) and found a spot in a hallway in front of the Euro Disney stand. Opening my little square box it was looking quite promising. Steam rose to my face. I smiled expectantly.
A few seconds later I was launching my bagel back into the box, watching as it slid back under its greaseproof cover. “It tastes like rubber” I muttered, wiping a napkin over my soiled lips. The sad flaccid bagel cowered in its box. Mum looked disappointed. Now I felt bad. Begrudgingly I squirted the thing with red sauce, wolfed it and gave an attempt at a smile. I don’t think Mum liked hers, but she made out like it was fine because that’s what she does, makes the best out of something bad and forgets the inconsequential. As for me, I was peeved and a bit grumpy for an hour. Maybe that’s the bit I get from Dad.
Eurostar Departure Lounge
Unit 8
Waterloo International
SE1
020 7922 1422
www.bagelfactory.co.uk
by Cathy Latte
My mum has a remarkable resilience that she unwittingly and selflessly passes on to all she meets. Countless times I’ve heard her soft Irish lilt utter those words “you mustn’t dwell” to a troubled friend, weepy child or, at times, a crestfallen daughter. However, for all her adaptability, travel still gets her a little flappy – so when recently we arrived at Waterloo to catch the Eurostar I thought it best to sort our breakfast once through passport control.
Circling the concourse, excitable mother and wheelie bags in tow, I led the breakfast search party. By the second lap past elderly sausages on the main caff counter, greying sandwiches at WH Smith and the Bagel Factory (the Euston counterpart of which has already received a blasting by Mabel), my disquiet was growing.
Still, we had to eat, and bagels looked best. We bought two breakfast ones (egg, mushroom, sausage, bacon) and found a spot in a hallway in front of the Euro Disney stand. Opening my little square box it was looking quite promising. Steam rose to my face. I smiled expectantly.
A few seconds later I was launching my bagel back into the box, watching as it slid back under its greaseproof cover. “It tastes like rubber” I muttered, wiping a napkin over my soiled lips. The sad flaccid bagel cowered in its box. Mum looked disappointed. Now I felt bad. Begrudgingly I squirted the thing with red sauce, wolfed it and gave an attempt at a smile. I don’t think Mum liked hers, but she made out like it was fine because that’s what she does, makes the best out of something bad and forgets the inconsequential. As for me, I was peeved and a bit grumpy for an hour. Maybe that’s the bit I get from Dad.
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
St John Bread & Wine, Spitalfields
St John Bread & Wine
94 - 96 Commercial St
Spitalfields
E1
by Pam au Chocolat
Many's the time I think the best reason for living where I do is that St John Bread and Wine is now my local restaurant and indeed, off-licence. From 9 until 11, it does the best ever decadent breakfasts – and it’s not even that expensive.
A limited menu lists a brace of Lowestoft kippers, an Old Spot bacon sarnie, porridge, granola, stewed apple and something, and picklets (aka pikelets, aka crumpets). But what you’re really interested in is the first two listed items. Two huge, juicy, lightly grilled, undyed kippers with half a lemon come in at £6.30, but could easily feed two with a round of toast. Likewise the equally huge fragrant bacon sandwich — £4.50 but fantastic value for the quantity. Here, truly generous amounts of subtly smoky, utterly flavoursome bacon are caught between doorsteps of fluffy bread from the in-house bakery, lightly toasted to have the scent of a chargrill but none of the charcoal effect and drenched in slaverings of real butter. It comes with a little cup of fruit compote, which sounds like a nancy affectation but actually adds a fantastic extra sweetness and tartness to the combination if desired. We ordered, as usual, those two dishes to share – a lot of food for just over a tenner.
St John's serves gutsy stuff, no stinting on quantity or quality — yet somehow it is always mysteriously quiet in the morning, half-full of locals, some families, head-deep in newspapers or sleepily exchanging observations on the exploits of the night before. White walls and ordinary tables help with the feeling of peace. Good tea in a real heavy pot, with a real heavy cup that doesn’t let it get cold; good juice; full bellies: we waddle out and sigh contentedly, before re-entering the fray of the Sunday
markets.
94 - 96 Commercial St
Spitalfields
E1
by Pam au Chocolat
Many's the time I think the best reason for living where I do is that St John Bread and Wine is now my local restaurant and indeed, off-licence. From 9 until 11, it does the best ever decadent breakfasts – and it’s not even that expensive.
A limited menu lists a brace of Lowestoft kippers, an Old Spot bacon sarnie, porridge, granola, stewed apple and something, and picklets (aka pikelets, aka crumpets). But what you’re really interested in is the first two listed items. Two huge, juicy, lightly grilled, undyed kippers with half a lemon come in at £6.30, but could easily feed two with a round of toast. Likewise the equally huge fragrant bacon sandwich — £4.50 but fantastic value for the quantity. Here, truly generous amounts of subtly smoky, utterly flavoursome bacon are caught between doorsteps of fluffy bread from the in-house bakery, lightly toasted to have the scent of a chargrill but none of the charcoal effect and drenched in slaverings of real butter. It comes with a little cup of fruit compote, which sounds like a nancy affectation but actually adds a fantastic extra sweetness and tartness to the combination if desired. We ordered, as usual, those two dishes to share – a lot of food for just over a tenner.
St John's serves gutsy stuff, no stinting on quantity or quality — yet somehow it is always mysteriously quiet in the morning, half-full of locals, some families, head-deep in newspapers or sleepily exchanging observations on the exploits of the night before. White walls and ordinary tables help with the feeling of peace. Good tea in a real heavy pot, with a real heavy cup that doesn’t let it get cold; good juice; full bellies: we waddle out and sigh contentedly, before re-entering the fray of the Sunday
markets.
Monday, April 17, 2006
Chez Gerard, Heathrow Airport
Chez Gerard
Terminal 3
Heathrow Airport
TW6
by Herby Banger
There are surprisingly few eating options at Heathrow’s Terminal 3, which is where most of the long international flights depart from. The only real opportunity for a sit-down breakfast is Chez Gerard, a pleasant pastiche of a French café, wedged into the corner of the busy shopping area.
I quickly deduced that I would have “Le Petit Déjeuner Anglais”. However I couldn’t bring myself to vocalise it in French, just as the French wouldn’t say “English Breakfast please” on the streets of Paris.
This is an airport so there are some things we have to put up with – the plastic cutlery for one, yet another sad echo of 9/11; and a ludicrous price, £10.95 in this case. The breakfast contained 2 eggs, a small yet herby sausage, mushroom, grilled tomatoes, 2 rashers of smoked bacon, toast and tea or coffee. You also get beans, brought out in their own dish, which is placed on the bigger plate. This is definitely not for the purist, and when I first saw it I did indeed scoff, but on reflection the siphoning off of the beans reveals itself to be a stroke of subtle genius. Firstly, it means that you can control the amount of beans on your plate. How many breakfasts have been ruined by the overpowering swell of too many beans? Also this extra dish keeps the little buggers piping hot, and after countless occasions of being served luke-warm beans I almost wish that this was introduced as standard practice for all breakfast proprietors.
The breakfast itself was very well cooked and enjoyed immensely. Nothing spectacular, but it definitely could’ve been a lot worse. In fact if, like me, the thought of being in the air for 11 hours doesn’t sit too well, then this is the perfect settler.
Terminal 3
Heathrow Airport
TW6
by Herby Banger
There are surprisingly few eating options at Heathrow’s Terminal 3, which is where most of the long international flights depart from. The only real opportunity for a sit-down breakfast is Chez Gerard, a pleasant pastiche of a French café, wedged into the corner of the busy shopping area.
I quickly deduced that I would have “Le Petit Déjeuner Anglais”. However I couldn’t bring myself to vocalise it in French, just as the French wouldn’t say “English Breakfast please” on the streets of Paris.
This is an airport so there are some things we have to put up with – the plastic cutlery for one, yet another sad echo of 9/11; and a ludicrous price, £10.95 in this case. The breakfast contained 2 eggs, a small yet herby sausage, mushroom, grilled tomatoes, 2 rashers of smoked bacon, toast and tea or coffee. You also get beans, brought out in their own dish, which is placed on the bigger plate. This is definitely not for the purist, and when I first saw it I did indeed scoff, but on reflection the siphoning off of the beans reveals itself to be a stroke of subtle genius. Firstly, it means that you can control the amount of beans on your plate. How many breakfasts have been ruined by the overpowering swell of too many beans? Also this extra dish keeps the little buggers piping hot, and after countless occasions of being served luke-warm beans I almost wish that this was introduced as standard practice for all breakfast proprietors.
The breakfast itself was very well cooked and enjoyed immensely. Nothing spectacular, but it definitely could’ve been a lot worse. In fact if, like me, the thought of being in the air for 11 hours doesn’t sit too well, then this is the perfect settler.
Thursday, April 13, 2006
Yummy's Cafe, Spitalfields
Yummy's Cafe
60 Cheshire St
Spitalfields
E2
by Blake Pudding
Whilst playing Texas-hold ‘em with a gang of Oriental ne’erdowells, I was reminded of my Uncle Peter’s famous dictat on stimulants: “If you want to stay up for three nights playing poker never, ever take cocaine, I’ve seen dear friends wreck their lives on cocaine. Whisky, boy, that’s all I used to take. . .. . .and Benzedrine.” But I was never one to take hard-earned advice so, very poor and hungry, I was deposited onto Cheshire Street on market day. A man was doing a roaring trade selling second-hand scissors. I stumbled into Yummy’s and much to my surprise was greeted like an old friend. The chap behind the counter kept up a steady stream of chat involving Jamie Oliver, catering for gay ballet troupes (are there any other kinds?), Toyota Corrollas and falafels. I’d wager he was of Greek Cypriot extraction. All the time he lovingly prepared my bacon and egg sandwich. When it arrived, it was nigh-on perfect. The bread was of the crusty doorstop variety, the bacon succulent and the egg, though still runny, did not spill itself all over my crumpled suit. The yolk had commingled in a heavenly fashion with the sweet, sweet brown sauce and the salty bacon. I closed my eyes and almost wept with happiness. I washed it down with a mug of strong, sweet tea. It was then that I realised why breakfast can be so special, especially in this overpriced city; it can offer perfection and happiness at a very reasonable price. This is not something you get from cocaine or, for that matter, Benzedrine.
60 Cheshire St
Spitalfields
E2
by Blake Pudding
Whilst playing Texas-hold ‘em with a gang of Oriental ne’erdowells, I was reminded of my Uncle Peter’s famous dictat on stimulants: “If you want to stay up for three nights playing poker never, ever take cocaine, I’ve seen dear friends wreck their lives on cocaine. Whisky, boy, that’s all I used to take. . .. . .and Benzedrine.” But I was never one to take hard-earned advice so, very poor and hungry, I was deposited onto Cheshire Street on market day. A man was doing a roaring trade selling second-hand scissors. I stumbled into Yummy’s and much to my surprise was greeted like an old friend. The chap behind the counter kept up a steady stream of chat involving Jamie Oliver, catering for gay ballet troupes (are there any other kinds?), Toyota Corrollas and falafels. I’d wager he was of Greek Cypriot extraction. All the time he lovingly prepared my bacon and egg sandwich. When it arrived, it was nigh-on perfect. The bread was of the crusty doorstop variety, the bacon succulent and the egg, though still runny, did not spill itself all over my crumpled suit. The yolk had commingled in a heavenly fashion with the sweet, sweet brown sauce and the salty bacon. I closed my eyes and almost wept with happiness. I washed it down with a mug of strong, sweet tea. It was then that I realised why breakfast can be so special, especially in this overpriced city; it can offer perfection and happiness at a very reasonable price. This is not something you get from cocaine or, for that matter, Benzedrine.
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
The Dervish, Stoke Newington
The Dervish
15 Stoke Newington Church Street
Stoke Newington
N16
020 7923 9999
by H.P. Seuss
It is often remarked that beans are to the cooked breakfast as the Dutch Mercenary Forces were to the Royal Netherlands Indies Army. Keep them in check and they will perform unglamorous but vital tasks about the empire of the fry-up; sweetening sausage, lubricating toast, communing with chips, &c. Exert insufficient discipline upon them, however, and they will soon exhibit their mania for chaos. They teem. They flood. They carouse like drunken navvies.
And once on the ascendancy, they indulge in all kinds of trickery. They engulf an egg with the multitudinal terror of Balinese ants smothering a sleeping deer. They drown bacon with the mercilessness of a South Sea squall swallowing a Sumatran fisherman. Your breakfast paradise becomes a gooey mess.
At the Dervish on Saturday, my plate arrived in chaos. Beans everywhere. Not very nice beans, either. Give 'em a good stew and beans become fluffy and tameable; these were tepid and watery. They seemed to be multiplying, too. I'm sure I saw one of them elongate, narrow around the midriff and blink itself in two. I built a dam with my sausage to protect my egg from the riotous mob - but the damage was already done. I rescued what I could before leaving the plate to the orange terror, mushrooms and tomatoes floundering in the mire.
Why had I not heeded the lesson from The Blue Legume up the road? There too, the proportions were all out, the bacon and eggs practically an after-thought, upstaged by veg. Call it the N16 ratio. I eyed Molly Coddle-Degg's bespoke order of eggs, bacon and sausage enviously. Sensible Molly. The jewels of her breakfast crown had pride of place, untouched and untainted by renegade elements. When in exotic climes, in breakfasting, as in empire-building, divide and rule is the thing.
15 Stoke Newington Church Street
Stoke Newington
N16
020 7923 9999
by H.P. Seuss
It is often remarked that beans are to the cooked breakfast as the Dutch Mercenary Forces were to the Royal Netherlands Indies Army. Keep them in check and they will perform unglamorous but vital tasks about the empire of the fry-up; sweetening sausage, lubricating toast, communing with chips, &c. Exert insufficient discipline upon them, however, and they will soon exhibit their mania for chaos. They teem. They flood. They carouse like drunken navvies.
And once on the ascendancy, they indulge in all kinds of trickery. They engulf an egg with the multitudinal terror of Balinese ants smothering a sleeping deer. They drown bacon with the mercilessness of a South Sea squall swallowing a Sumatran fisherman. Your breakfast paradise becomes a gooey mess.
At the Dervish on Saturday, my plate arrived in chaos. Beans everywhere. Not very nice beans, either. Give 'em a good stew and beans become fluffy and tameable; these were tepid and watery. They seemed to be multiplying, too. I'm sure I saw one of them elongate, narrow around the midriff and blink itself in two. I built a dam with my sausage to protect my egg from the riotous mob - but the damage was already done. I rescued what I could before leaving the plate to the orange terror, mushrooms and tomatoes floundering in the mire.
Why had I not heeded the lesson from The Blue Legume up the road? There too, the proportions were all out, the bacon and eggs practically an after-thought, upstaged by veg. Call it the N16 ratio. I eyed Molly Coddle-Degg's bespoke order of eggs, bacon and sausage enviously. Sensible Molly. The jewels of her breakfast crown had pride of place, untouched and untainted by renegade elements. When in exotic climes, in breakfasting, as in empire-building, divide and rule is the thing.
Monday, April 10, 2006
Bar Italia, Soho
Bar Italia
22 Frith St
Soho
W1D
020 7437 4520
www.baritaliasoho.co.uk
by Gracie Spoon
Etched into Soho lore, Bar Italia is a teeny-tiny Italian frenzy, a shoebox of a cafe in which ham and soft toys hang from the ceiling and coffee is served 24 hours a day. It seems fitting that the clock at the entrance shows the wrong time because once that point is passed, a different pace of world begins.
At 8.30am on a Wednesday morning, these were the Bar Italia sounds:
• The synthetic wolf whistles and boinks of a persistent fruit machine.
• The conspiratorial hum of cabbies in leather jackets.
• Breakfast news barked out from a wall of television.
• The ‘NA na!’ bits from ‘You’re Just Too Good To Be True’. As performed by two black-tied waiters.
At 8.30am on a Wednesday morning, these were the Bar Italia people:
• Four Fire Brigade burlies dining al fresco.
• Two female geriatrics whose tracksuits, sunglasses and heavy pink lipstick scream ‘American!’.
• A man with terrible determination, mainlining aforementioned fruit machine.
• The cabbies, the plumbers, the suits, the tourists and the out-of-synch.
And breakfast?
Well, breakfast didn’t taste too good. Dry, possibly stale. But this seems to miss the point.
It’s 8.55am at work. The lights are still off, nothing is happening and I am reassured of the responsible order of things. But for the rest of the morning, Bar Italia’s seedy exuberance and its much-praised coffee (as dizzy-strong as its atmosphere) stick with me, pulling my hair and distracting my respectable paperwork.
22 Frith St
Soho
W1D
020 7437 4520
www.baritaliasoho.co.uk
by Gracie Spoon
Etched into Soho lore, Bar Italia is a teeny-tiny Italian frenzy, a shoebox of a cafe in which ham and soft toys hang from the ceiling and coffee is served 24 hours a day. It seems fitting that the clock at the entrance shows the wrong time because once that point is passed, a different pace of world begins.
At 8.30am on a Wednesday morning, these were the Bar Italia sounds:
• The synthetic wolf whistles and boinks of a persistent fruit machine.
• The conspiratorial hum of cabbies in leather jackets.
• Breakfast news barked out from a wall of television.
• The ‘NA na!’ bits from ‘You’re Just Too Good To Be True’. As performed by two black-tied waiters.
At 8.30am on a Wednesday morning, these were the Bar Italia people:
• Four Fire Brigade burlies dining al fresco.
• Two female geriatrics whose tracksuits, sunglasses and heavy pink lipstick scream ‘American!’.
• A man with terrible determination, mainlining aforementioned fruit machine.
• The cabbies, the plumbers, the suits, the tourists and the out-of-synch.
And breakfast?
Well, breakfast didn’t taste too good. Dry, possibly stale. But this seems to miss the point.
It’s 8.55am at work. The lights are still off, nothing is happening and I am reassured of the responsible order of things. But for the rest of the morning, Bar Italia’s seedy exuberance and its much-praised coffee (as dizzy-strong as its atmosphere) stick with me, pulling my hair and distracting my respectable paperwork.
Friday, April 07, 2006
Café Seventy Nine, Primrose Hill
Café Seventy Nine
79 Regents Park Road
Primrose Hill
NW1
by Corin Flakes
Much to the chagrin of this devoted carnivore, Café Seventy Nine is a vegetarian joint with organic inclinations – even its cutlery, you suspect, is eco-friendly and ethically sound. The breakfast menu is rudimentary but warmly nostalgic, with a deferential (almost schoolboy-ish) nod to the primacy of bread: beans on toast, mushrooms on toast, cheese on toast… It’s also hugely expensive. In this town, it seems conscience costs.
Tastefully decorated but unmanageably small, it took Ed Benedict and me some time to lever ourselves - through a flux of inelegant, breathless contortions - into a cavity in the corner. This is not a cafe for reading papers; unfolding a broadsheet could feasibly endanger the chef’s view of his grill. Unbowed by claustrophobia, the clientele managed to radiate wealth and riotous fertility; their macro-biotic babies yelped precociously in designer dungarees.
Ed, with palpable glee, went for the vegetarian breakfast, something you’d reasonably expect the kitchen to excel at (especially for an immoderate £6.75). Regrettably, it was a disjointed affair – the scrambled eggs were inconsistent, glowing yellow with hypnotic, nuclear effulgence. The sausages were parched, thumb-sized protrusions, flanked by stringent wheels of raw tomato. Thankfully, the commendable rustic bread delivered on its wholesome promise, but as for the mushrooms…
At £4.75 for mushrooms on toast you anticipate brilliance; sourced from a flourishing field, surgically sliced, heated tenderly in an ambrosial blend of garlic and butter… but no. Limp and nebulous, despite my avalanche of seasoning, the tastelessness and price combined to insult both palate and wallet. I prodded and probed despondently, while Ed, a cep-zealot of noted fervour, fell into silent melancholy.
We left morally emboldened, but financially and spiritually weak.
79 Regents Park Road
Primrose Hill
NW1
by Corin Flakes
Much to the chagrin of this devoted carnivore, Café Seventy Nine is a vegetarian joint with organic inclinations – even its cutlery, you suspect, is eco-friendly and ethically sound. The breakfast menu is rudimentary but warmly nostalgic, with a deferential (almost schoolboy-ish) nod to the primacy of bread: beans on toast, mushrooms on toast, cheese on toast… It’s also hugely expensive. In this town, it seems conscience costs.
Tastefully decorated but unmanageably small, it took Ed Benedict and me some time to lever ourselves - through a flux of inelegant, breathless contortions - into a cavity in the corner. This is not a cafe for reading papers; unfolding a broadsheet could feasibly endanger the chef’s view of his grill. Unbowed by claustrophobia, the clientele managed to radiate wealth and riotous fertility; their macro-biotic babies yelped precociously in designer dungarees.
Ed, with palpable glee, went for the vegetarian breakfast, something you’d reasonably expect the kitchen to excel at (especially for an immoderate £6.75). Regrettably, it was a disjointed affair – the scrambled eggs were inconsistent, glowing yellow with hypnotic, nuclear effulgence. The sausages were parched, thumb-sized protrusions, flanked by stringent wheels of raw tomato. Thankfully, the commendable rustic bread delivered on its wholesome promise, but as for the mushrooms…
At £4.75 for mushrooms on toast you anticipate brilliance; sourced from a flourishing field, surgically sliced, heated tenderly in an ambrosial blend of garlic and butter… but no. Limp and nebulous, despite my avalanche of seasoning, the tastelessness and price combined to insult both palate and wallet. I prodded and probed despondently, while Ed, a cep-zealot of noted fervour, fell into silent melancholy.
We left morally emboldened, but financially and spiritually weak.
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
Pistachios, Greenwich
Pistachios
15 Nelson Rd
Greenwich
SE10
020 8853 0602
by Gracie Spoon
Pistachios is crammed. Crammed with an army of school-age staff, crammed with small tables buckling with food, and crammed with gleaming retro-haired students. From amidst the mêlée of moving food and good skin, one European teen emerges to jot down two all-dayers (£4.75 each). Though we are fussy, she is unfazed (so, you don’t want beans? We’ll get you extra hash browns. Now you want extra hash browns? We’ll get you extra hash browns) and, very soon, we too have more breakfast than table.
Our neat portions are pared down to one egg, one sausage, and a few delicate scoops of the extras: tomatoes, bacon, silky mushrooms, the chips are just coming… Unarguably spot-hitting stuff. We eat. The tide of waiters group and regroup around us. KT Tunstall whoo-hoos in the background. Finally, the updates on our absent chips peak with an endearing admission that actually there are only six chips left, but they’re ours if we want them. And they are so nice about it, and the chips are so fresh, that we forgive Pistachios.
Although nothing to faint over, breakfast has been a cheerful affair: crispy in all the right places, runny in all the others. Much as in the case of KT and her whoo-hoos, it’s a well-worn truth that a little MOR approachability goes a long way. Although in the hands of a reviewer, ‘boringly faultless’ is the most cynical of insults, out there amongst the breakfast-buying public this kind of reliability sells steadily and wins Brit Awards.
15 Nelson Rd
Greenwich
SE10
020 8853 0602
by Gracie Spoon
Pistachios is crammed. Crammed with an army of school-age staff, crammed with small tables buckling with food, and crammed with gleaming retro-haired students. From amidst the mêlée of moving food and good skin, one European teen emerges to jot down two all-dayers (£4.75 each). Though we are fussy, she is unfazed (so, you don’t want beans? We’ll get you extra hash browns. Now you want extra hash browns? We’ll get you extra hash browns) and, very soon, we too have more breakfast than table.
Our neat portions are pared down to one egg, one sausage, and a few delicate scoops of the extras: tomatoes, bacon, silky mushrooms, the chips are just coming… Unarguably spot-hitting stuff. We eat. The tide of waiters group and regroup around us. KT Tunstall whoo-hoos in the background. Finally, the updates on our absent chips peak with an endearing admission that actually there are only six chips left, but they’re ours if we want them. And they are so nice about it, and the chips are so fresh, that we forgive Pistachios.
Although nothing to faint over, breakfast has been a cheerful affair: crispy in all the right places, runny in all the others. Much as in the case of KT and her whoo-hoos, it’s a well-worn truth that a little MOR approachability goes a long way. Although in the hands of a reviewer, ‘boringly faultless’ is the most cynical of insults, out there amongst the breakfast-buying public this kind of reliability sells steadily and wins Brit Awards.
Monday, April 03, 2006
The New Piccadilly, Soho
***THE NEW PICCADILLY HAS NOW CLOSED***
The New Piccadilly
8 Denman St
Soho
W1
by Malcolm Eggs
A couple of turnings beyond little aluminium Eros, the New Piccadilly is a Formica-packed icon of countless bygone eras. Adrian Maddox, arch-champion of London’s increasingly endangered postwar Italian cafes, has called it “a place of worship”. Indeed you'd have to be a Mammon-hearted property developer not to adore the vintage pink and gold coffee machine, the chirpy looking stuffed peacock in the big glass tank, the bright twisted neon window sign that says ‘Eats’, or the menu that lives on an enormous white plastic horseshoe. Friendly staff patrol the tables in immaculate uniforms that are part concierge, part asylum warden and many of the clientele resemble Seventies disaster movie extras, except with worse hair. Basically it all looks magnificent, is always appearing in films and magazines, is a living museum of sorts. But as the owner Lorenzo (of the great restaurant-owning Marioni family) has said, “abito non fa il” – the habit doesn’t make the monk. Would the 'Egg Dishes' do justice to the stuffed peacock?
I ordered egg, bacon, chips and beans, partly in homage to that other great cafe scholar Russell Davies, partly because half the other patrons were chewing jubilantly on a variety of coiled crispy bacon that looked to be just the thing. But when it arrived, I was faced with a previously unencountered aberration: undercooked streaky. It was elastic and fatty. Devastated, I was left to seek solace in the eggs, chips and beans which, while being of aptly classical form, were nothing to burst into pig-indifferent song about. On my way to the door, I glowered enviously at someone else’s dusky crimson rashers, dismayed to have received a meal so commonplace in an institution that is so very out-of-the-ordinary.
The New Piccadilly
8 Denman St
Soho
W1
by Malcolm Eggs
A couple of turnings beyond little aluminium Eros, the New Piccadilly is a Formica-packed icon of countless bygone eras. Adrian Maddox, arch-champion of London’s increasingly endangered postwar Italian cafes, has called it “a place of worship”. Indeed you'd have to be a Mammon-hearted property developer not to adore the vintage pink and gold coffee machine, the chirpy looking stuffed peacock in the big glass tank, the bright twisted neon window sign that says ‘Eats’, or the menu that lives on an enormous white plastic horseshoe. Friendly staff patrol the tables in immaculate uniforms that are part concierge, part asylum warden and many of the clientele resemble Seventies disaster movie extras, except with worse hair. Basically it all looks magnificent, is always appearing in films and magazines, is a living museum of sorts. But as the owner Lorenzo (of the great restaurant-owning Marioni family) has said, “abito non fa il” – the habit doesn’t make the monk. Would the 'Egg Dishes' do justice to the stuffed peacock?
I ordered egg, bacon, chips and beans, partly in homage to that other great cafe scholar Russell Davies, partly because half the other patrons were chewing jubilantly on a variety of coiled crispy bacon that looked to be just the thing. But when it arrived, I was faced with a previously unencountered aberration: undercooked streaky. It was elastic and fatty. Devastated, I was left to seek solace in the eggs, chips and beans which, while being of aptly classical form, were nothing to burst into pig-indifferent song about. On my way to the door, I glowered enviously at someone else’s dusky crimson rashers, dismayed to have received a meal so commonplace in an institution that is so very out-of-the-ordinary.
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