Maria's, Borough

Maria's
Borough Market
Borough
SE1
Open Wednesday - Saturday

by Pam au Chocolat

Maria is café aristocracy. Her parents – Italian, of course – used to run the Borough Café round the corner on Park St, which was famous for its bubble ‘n ‘squeak and, in the days before gentrification hit the warehouses of the Borough, always reverently referred to as ‘Mama’s’.

But Mama died, Network Rail closed the Borough Café, and for a while Maria set up herself in a hole in the wall on Stoney Street, before moving last year to a stall and a little enclosure of tables within the market itself. She is large, incredibly ruddy, always grinning and has that fantastic bellowing Cockney-Italian screech of a voice that is shared with café owners the city over.

Today it’s unseasonably cold and I’m a little grumpy, so it’s time to hunker down in my thick puffa jacket with the Sun and a plate of bubble, bacon, egg, tomato and black pudding. The bubble is possibly the best thing ever – crusty and crispy with those delicious burnt bits, while at the same time hot and comforting. It cooks in a gigantic frying pan, occasionally replenished from a vat of mashed potato and another of cabbage, the new getting worked down into the old crunchy bits at the bottom. The bacon is thick and salty and has the hint of a crunch around the edge. The over-easy egg (cooked with a casual wrist-flick I’ve never seen elsewhere) does its magical thing, oozing gloriously soft inside its veil of white.

As I eat, I hear Maria shout out to the other traders and customers, trading jokes that always end with her in hysterical laughter, wiping the hint of a tear from her eye as she shakes her head. And the tea, of course, is strong.

Goodfare, Camden Town

Goodfare
26 Parkway
Camden Town
NW1 7AH
020 7485 2230
Breakfast served: 8am - 10.30pm

by Malcolm Eggs

It was a bright cold day in April, and my mobile phone said 13:00. Mabel and I, our hands nuzzled into our pockets to escape the mild drizzle, slipped quickly through the glass door of Goodfare. The room smelt of tea, roast beef and clean aprons. A tinny music was trickling from the sandwich counter and we sat at a table by the big window. An old waitress, working the room with a sort of military precision, approached us and we ordered.

Now if you want a picture of my Goodfare breakfast, imagine a glass of tap water being delivered--immediately. Imagine an omelette, slightly curved on one side, flat on the other, making almost the shape of a waxing farm moon. There was a pleasing oiliness, as of a good antiques dealer, in both the egg and the cheese. Through it all, magnified by grease, were comforting, pink, succulent bits of bacon that recalled rose petals or Danish flags. The taste was delightful. Mabel was eating bacon, egg, sausage and tomato. 'Yes, I like that,' she said.

I gazed out at Camden, the Town once inhabited by the great Eric Arthur Blair. Thirty years it had taken me to learn what kind of breakfast was hidden on those dark streets. Two final sips of tea trickled down the sides of my throat. It was alright, everything was alright, the breakfast was finished. Once more I had won the victory over my incessant peckishness. I loved Goodfare.

Alpino, Islington

Alpino
97 Chapel Market
Islington
N1
020 7837 8330

by Egon Toast

Chapel Market, the spiritual heart of Islington life, is thrown into marked relief by its neighbour, the Mecca of Un-fun that is the 'N1 Centre'. As is eye-bogglingly evident to anyone with even the most boggle-resistant eyes, this botched, vainglorious plaza is vile and depressing, and thus when in the area, you must head across the road in protest and purchase a few pears, a bunch of carrots, a twin pack of brillo pads and possibly Phil Collins' latest oeuvre. And then take breakfast at Alpino's.

For of course, every spiritual centre needs its inner temple. It's a period masterpiece, a quiet, steamy-windowed haven. At the entrance, a hissing tea urn, and the friendliest welcome this side of your mum's house. We take our seats in one of the many booths, the banquettes stained a dark porphyritic red, and cast our eyes around the endearingly wonky fluted wall panels. We check the breakfast specials. The menu says, 'Open Since 1959'. Our breakfast has nigh-on 50 years of previous.

"Right, who's hungry?" calls Steve the amiable chef, emerging from the back with our laden plates. The beans, soggy scourge of the newly-buttered slice of toast, are husbanded expertly by flanks of mushroom and a handsomely sturdy egg. The ratio of sauce to pulse is professional, as is their temperature – as toasty as a cat-warmed blanket. The sausage – firm, with nary a hint of dryness; pork perfection in a membranous sac. The bacon – ample, neither floppy nor desiccated. The tomatoes – tinged with carbon, piping hot and firm.

Altogether, a breakfast compiled by a champion, demolished by a pair of star-struck wanderers, as around them hangs the hush of half a dozen traders, slurping their tea and checking the Racing Post. Praise be.

Clicia, Stoke Newington

Clicia
97 Stoke Newington Church Street
Stoke Newington
N16
020 7254 1025

by Molly Coddle-Degg

When I taught English in Paris, I once prepared a lesson extolling the joys of the Full English Breakfast. This basically involved handing out photocopies of an A4 sheet on which I’d hastily scribbled the usual fried suspects (the egg, it should be noted, was easy to sketch – but have you ever tried drawing a realistic hash brown?). Strangely, the notion of such delights failed to set my pupils’ stomachs rumbling. Instead, I was faced with a bevy of French children making retching noises and professing that they felt ‘malade’. Petits boéciens! A croissant is all very well and good, but it’s a mere snack. What the belly wants in the morning is grease, and plenty of it.

Clicia, in typical Stoke Newington Church Street style, seemed in danger of being a bit too gastro to be sufficiently greasy, but my co-breakfasteers had fallen for the bejewelled, multi-coloured lantern-filled decor, and I was out-voted. Happily, the fry-up included a hash brown, but I know better than to order mushrooms and beans in N16. Still, this meant that the large rectangular plate here appeared gargantuan and my meal irritatingly meagre; especially as the egg had been neatly fried within the constraints of a small circular mould.

In fact it was the perfect amount of cooked breakfast, and I was left just shy of full, with convenient room to fill up my tummy with Clicia’s magic ingredient – its amazingly fresh, sweet, crusty and hot Turkish bread. It may not be the most suitable substance to soak up egg yolk, or balance (quite juicy) bacon on, but this bread is too good to be corrupted by extra flavours. No, this was pure grease-free bready bliss, of a sort that even gastro-snobby froggies would appreciate.

The Breakfast Club, Soho

The Breakfast Club
33 D'Arblay St
Soho
W1F
020 7434 2571

by Poppy Tartt

I’d dreamed of The Breakfast Club. This, surely, was breakfast-Mecca: its name, its concept, its jouissance. But no.

My companion was my dear old Uncle Feather. Feather is easily rattled and the shock of the menu was very great: The Breakfast Club does not serve a proper English breakfast. How I longed for the simplicity of such establishments as ‘Chicken and Rib’ or ‘Pizza Time’. This place, I said to Feather firmly, will not be getting my vote for The Ronseal Tell It Like It Is Award. Mercy, no, said Feather.

My poor uncle, desperate to have his breakfast any which way, opted for the Breakfast Wrap, yet another meal that fashion has seen fit to snatch from its plate and roll up in a pancake. It arrived, an attractive cross section of pale colours, screaming with nutrition. But to me the ubiquitous Wrap is the enemy of diversity. It rolled into town like a tortillo typhoon some time ago, wrapping up everything in its wake, slashing the very bread from sandwiches.

Out of sheer desperation I chose the ‘Healthy Brekky’: cereal, toast, tea and orange juice. I did not want orange juice – but the tiniest venture off menu led the staff to form a huddle and thence an unyielding wall. You must pay full price nonetheless, they insisted cheerily. Further entreaties were deflected like so many rays of sun by a jaunty visor.

All in all, there is something bleakly Neighbours about the BC, putting it rather at odds with its Soho location. Predictably they do produce excellent smoothies, a word I can hardly bear to pronounce. But with no smoking throughout and a freakishly healthy vibe, this place should be peddling its vitamins on a beach in Australia somewhere, not knocking on the door of London’s dirty heart.

The Bird Cage, Stoke Newington

The Bird Cage
58 Stamford Hill
Stoke Newington
N16
020 8806 6740

by H.P. Seuss

I burst into the Birdcage at 11.17am on Saturday 6th May, my head pounding, my soul weary after a week of disappointment.

A few washed-up morning drinkers read the papers, each one as far away from the others as possible. I cast around for the loneliest table, feeling like a bird in a cage, and hit upon a perch in the gloomiest corner. I set myself down with a scotch and spread my paper out in front of me, trying to block out the bad trip-hop - a lousy gastropub substitute for the melancholy jazz of those old noir movies. Nausea and regret hit me with a one-two punch as I put a cigarette to my lips.

Christ, my limbs hurt. I shut my eyes, opening them only upon sensing the waitress looming over me like a bored vulture. I put in an order for the Brunch Special, easy on the vegetables, then read the funnies listlessly, unable to conceive of this mood ever drifting into the past. After a suspiciously long time, they put my breakfast in front of me.

Eagerly, I slit open the yolk and let the orange goo ooze over the bacon. I cut off a piece and thrust it towards my mouth. Cold. A crushing blow. Too listless to complain, I put up with tepid sausage, lukewarm tomato, dulling mushroom. These fine ingredients, left to chill unloved in a service hatch, cost me the princely sum of £7.50. I quit the Birdcage in a state of despair. Sometimes breakfast, like life, promises so much and delivers so little. But then again, sometimes breakfast, like time, is what we make it.

The Redchurch, Shoreditch

The Redchurch
107 Redchurch St
Shoreditch
E2
020 7729 8333
www.theredchurch.co.uk

by Bernie Toast

Saturday began, as always, with a bitter disagreement with my other half over the question of where to have breakfast. Like a thousand times before, I raged against the blandness of the savoury, while he sneered at my pathetic and somewhat downmarket sugar dependency. Thankfully we found neutral territory on American soil.

The Redchurch is a mere stone's throw from the prestigious London offices of that glamorous and unrivalled arbiter of taste, EasyJet Magazine. As such, it frequently receives glowing reviews in the 'Visit London' pages which, combined with an interesting new American Brunch menu, has had the devastating effect of encouraging a particularly virulent breed of American tourist to fill the café area, complete with full luggage suites, en route home.

In the spirit of the Americans, then, we decided to order most of the menu. Juices were fresh, fruit platters exotic, granola biscuity, cakes stale, omelettes pleasingly stodgy and pancakes (offered, pizza style, with an array of toppings) fluffy, sugary and light - although we had expected a tower of seventeen or eighteen and received a platter of just three. Service was at best delightful, at worst a little peculiar - at one point our somewhat erratic waitress arrived with coffee, whilst gnawing at a rind of pineapple which looked suspiciously like the one recently collected amongst our leftovers.

However, we were happy to accommodate this eccentricity as it accompanied a fine, and gob-smackingly cheap breakfast, proving that when deploying pancakes, eggs and coffee, the Americans can, in this area at least, be a powerful peacekeeping force.

Pâtisserie Ann Marie, Balham

Pâtisserie Ann Marie
1 Ramsden Road
Balham
SW12 8QX

by Bree Oshe

Pâtisserie Ann Marie appears like a mirage upon the vista of Balham High Road: a tiny fragment of Paris, transported through time and space, providing everything you could desire in terms of Franglaise cuisine. Upon entering you feel as if you’ve stepped out of droll, repetitive London and into another more pleasant reality, one where the furniture is old and heavy and delicious tartlets glimmer on the horizon (and the staff really are French, so your imaginary Gallic séjour feels all the more real).

Aujourd’hui I chose the crêpe Parisienne. I must admit I was a little disappointed on its arrival, having hoped for a large buckwheat galette similar to those I demolished daily during my time as an art student in Nantes. Instead I was presented with a modest, perfectly toasted semicircle of pancake, filled generously with fresh salmon and oozings of melted cream cheese. The side salad was a typically bland lettuce and tomato combination but that said it was fresh and crispy, making a good contrast to the richness of the pancake. Although it was not the best breakfast crêpe I have ever had (and I have had many), for a mere £3.85 it was excellent value for money and a delicious and light alternative for those feeling a little fragile on a Sunday morning.

Pâtisserie Ann Marie has won a place in my heart (and in my stomach) not just for the quality and variety of the food but because of the charming possibility it gives you for a little escapism, without actually having to go anywhere.

String Ray Café, Highbury

String Ray Café
36 Highbury Park
Highbury
N5
0871 426 3687

by Poppy Tartt

I do not take kindly to having my tea served to me with the teabag still in; it speaks of the worst sort of coarseness. Teabag and milk should never meet. I'm certain there must be a verse in the Old Testament about it somewhere. No doubt there is a good heart behind this scurrilous practice as there are behind most scurrilous practices - 'we only wanted,' cried the waiting staff in mournful unison, 'to allow the customer to moderate the strength of their tea according to their tastes and without fear of ridicule'. Nonsense! I like good strong tea as much as the next true Brit, but precious moments passed in the serving of my breakfast, during which the tragic bag languished in its watery grave all unattended to, its weakened membrane penetrated again and again by barbarous osmotic forces. A second more and my tea could have gone head to head with Peter Andre in a skin tone competition. It was too much to hope that I might be offered some sort of receptacle to bury the spent bag in, something in which to secrete the offending item behind the condiments. Oh Lord, if only I had not had to dine with the knowledge of what sat wedged twixt mug and saucer like an elderly bulldog's testicle, like the weasel under the cocktail cabinet.

Weasels aside, I was fortunate enough to enjoy the rest of my breakfast like a debutante at a ball. The egg showed its lacy skirts rather immodestly, but the sausage and bacon in their fine velvet coats were true gentlemen; they knew a lady when they saw one and when I asked them to dance they bowed low and dipped their heads in yolk.

Kekik Cafe Bistro Grill, Farringdon

Kekik Cafe Bistro Grill
54 Farringdon Rd
Farringdon
EC1R

by Dr Sigmund Fried

My work canteen has been getting me down of late, not least because it was recently the subject of a pointless but successful take-over bid, with the only discernible resulting difference being that meals have gone up by 70p and there is now a range of kettle crisps available.

So, on a particularly dull Monday afternoon, with the thought of yet another over-priced piece of rubbery haddock too depressing to consider, I organised a 5th floor jailbreak, taking three colleagues along for the crazy ride that is going over the road to get lunch. Kikek Cafe it was then, for no other reason than that it was close.

First impressions were positive - it was clean and had a nice airy, European feel to it. We were apparently not alone either in feeling canteen cabin fever, as we spied another table occupied by fellow comrades. Despite the extensive menu and it being two in the afternoon, I couldn't resist trying the 'special' breakfast. £3 for egg, bacon, beans, sausage and tea? I had a good feeling about this.

Unfortunately, this 'good' feeling was soon replaced by regret and mild nausea. Seemingly arriving about 45 seconds after I'd ordered it, my first thought was 'crikey that bacon looks pink'. Perhaps I should have stipulated that I'd have preferred it if it was at least a couple of shades darker than when it was still oinking around the farm, but I would have assumed that this was a given.

Looking on with envy as my fellow escapees ate their apparently delicious burgers and omelettes, I half-heartedly shovelled in the other sub-standard constituents and it occurred to me that sometimes, freedom comes at a price.

Maison Bertaux, Soho

Maison Bertaux
28 Greek Street
Soho
W1D
020 7437 6007
Open: Monday - Friday 9am - 10.30pm, Sunday 9am - 8pm

by Gracie Spoon

It’s 1988, and a nine-year-old Gracie Spoon imagines adulthood to be a whim-driven era of liberty far beyond parental edicts about sensible eating and working hard for things you want. It’s a world where you eat cake for breakfast, go out with Kenickie from Grease, own the full range of Pop Swatches and perhaps hold a job as a librarian with a big rubber stamp.

Eighteen years on, these tastes have admittedly changed… Turns out that, actually, muesli is nice and, you know, sometimes it does pay to work hard. But nine-year oldness isn’t completely gone and early one morning it made me walk into Maison Bertaux: world of cake. It really is such a nice place to be, all pink net and wilting flowers and accordions. And cakes. Cakes. Everywhere is cakes. On trays and in the window, tall creamy cakes, long creamy cakes, almond garnishes, puffy chocolate things, glazed strawberry toppings…

In truth – like a freaked pony - I baulked at the last moment, ordering a coffee and croissant instead. But oh my, what a croissant. Although not strictly cake, this is still far, far from being part of a sensible diet. Almost squelching with hidden creases of butter, this laudable origamied achievement of pastry balanced crispiness with greasiness perfectly*. And as if I hadn’t already picked up on the fact that I was treating myself, my bill of £3.80 (a crazy price when you start to think about it) served as a tart reminder. In 1988 that was, like, eight weeks’ pocket money.


*It has hopefully been established here that in many contexts grease is a thing to be celebrated. Please see greasy spoons/ Greasey Kenickie/ elbow grease.

Eat, Paddington

Eat
1st Floor
Paddington Station
W2
www.eat.co.uk

by Molly Coddle-Degg

Twenty-three minutes before my train, quite ravenously hungry, with no time to search for a proper greasy spoon and consume a fried breakfast, which would have to be cooked, placed on a plate and consumed with cutlery… I placed my trust in wise Mr Eggs’ breakfasting expertise, opting for Eat’s perfectly adequate - and speedily eatable - Full English Ciabatta.

Nonetheless, I nervously enquired about the contents, and once reassured that it was bean and mushroom-free, I paid my shiny £2.50 and watched from the counter as a mysterious beige oblong was placed in the sandwich toaster. Sadly, I got a better view as it came out, thirty seconds later, and an ambiguous grey filling plopped out. It was hastily stuffed back in, wrapped in foil and presented to me with a smile.

I sat down, refusing to accept inevitable disappointment before I’d actually had a mouthful; Molly Coddle-Degg is not a girl who shies away from processed meatstuffs. But this…! Well this was something else. A nauseating mass of cold, mushy gross-ness. In a bun.

Now, I don’t give up easily on breakfast – I generally keep going until my stomach hits capacity, but a few bites in, I abandoned the idea that this breakfast was going to feed me and decided to opt for the surgeon’s approach; take a scalpel to your subject and explore the constituent parts.

I gingerly opened the bread and discovered grey sausage chunks (which I believe contained splinters disguised as herbs), grey scrambled eggs (or pebbledash wall peelings), a grey fruit I presume was once a tomato, and some stringy excuse for bacon (grey). I was reduced to just nibbling at the soggy ciabatta.

The napkins proudly proclaim, “Time Out: EAT knocks spots of the competition”. In Paddington, it brings one out in spots.

Beware.